


A Quest of Queens

by ferrisulich



Series: The Dagroth's Devouring [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: 1 chapter / session, Archfey, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Circle of Land, DM writes the campaign, Dagroth's Devouring, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons Campaign, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grave Domain, Homebrew, I need to take better notes during our sessions, M/M, Magic, Mayhem, Multiclassing, Murder, Not Magic, Oath of Devotion, Paladin, Path of the Storm, Players fuck around, Roll for Initiative Fuckers, School of Evocation, The Author Regrets Everything, There's beans, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Trying to reconstruct sessions based on shoddy notes, Warlock - Freeform, Watch my sanity slowly start to leave me, Wizard, barbarian, campaign, cleric - Freeform, druid, just regular beans, no beta we die like men, rogue - Freeform, there will be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrisulich/pseuds/ferrisulich
Summary: Fear is the natural state of being for the residents of the Outskirts. Fear of being unable to feed their children from fields that are never given enough time to flourish. Fear they will be left behind during the next Exodus for they were too slow, too old, too weak, to follow. Fear, that the Dagroth's doom will befall them. Some have adapted. The druids have grown forests that travel on their own, the dwarfs have built elaborate caverns too deep to be reached, there is even a band of orcs renowned for having struck a pact with the Dagroth in exchange for fresh flesh. But for the common folk, nowhere is safe in these unforgiving lands. No where, except the Floating Islands. Beyond the void, lies a land of dreams, protected by fearsome magical rulers that protect their subjects with strict laws and powerful spells. But, the horizon is darkening once more, and this time, over the usually unencumbered skies of the Floating Islands. A threat is looming, fear is coursing through the blood of all, and no one is safe.AKA: I've been running a homebrew campaign for over a year now and here's the story of how I lost my mind
Relationships: Ardent/unsuccessfully seducing straight NPCs, Cackle/daggers, Gramdan & nature, Gramdan/the ground, Maenox/every breathing female in a 3 mile radius, Phyllite/Meka, Phyllite/every princess ever, Phyllite/himself, Shiro & his child
Series: The Dagroth's Devouring [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697272
Kudos: 9





	1. A Question Of Perspective And Other Prologues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you dared? Brave soul. Welcome to my campaign, the Dagroth's Devouring. This is the first instalment, A Quest of Queens, which I think will span the first 25 or so session from our game. As of now, my party and I are are on session, I believe, 35, and we usually play weekly on Fridays. Seeing as I don't write as fast as we play, I definitely won't be missing any content anytime soon... Especially since these bastards love going on tangent side quests so, they're far from finishing the actual campaign. We've been playing for almost a year now (!) and I thought it was time I finally put my literary skills to good use and write out our campaign. Because, and I am terribly biased since it's my homebrew, but this really is, just such a good fucking story. Mostly because of said bastard players. Not that I would ever tell them.
> 
> So roll for initiative and lets get this show on the road.

The shadows shifts and rearrange themselves, edges perked and attentive, in the dark corners of the room. The soft light hanging overhead chases at its tail ends, and they weave between the legs of those gathered around the oddly shaped table. Twisting through pant legs and between leather boots, the light catches the edges of bags and adventuring packs while the shadows hide between books and grimoires. Animated voices rise above the wind and rain battering the glass panes mercilessly. It is warm inside, the presence of friends and companions keeping the chill leaking through the walls at bay. The generously poured ale probably helps as well. The adventurers gathered around the glass table, strewn with nik naks of various shapes and sizes and colours, conspire loudly, laughter ringing true. A sea of papers covers the large expanse of the surface between them, covered in particular inscriptions and unusual designs, seeming to only make sense to those seated. An atmosphere of anticipation permeates the room, the soft light dances across the features of the adventurers, illuminating wide grins and curious glances. It is late, but tiredness cannot reach them, not now.

A lit of pan flute drifts through the air, and all straighten to attention, vibrating in their chairs, turning to the hooded figure that sits at the head of the table. A moment of silence drags out, building the suspense with practiced ease.

‘Welcome, adventurers.’ Speaks the figure, a wicked smirk not inspiring confidence in those present. Some start to fidget, perhaps regret their involvement. But the prize is too sweet. They lean in, inquisitive. ‘Be prepared, tonight, to take on a quest not light in burden. This journey will take you across unknown lands and treacherous passes, through dangerous dungeons. You will face unimaginable obstacles, monsters and challenged in your search for the end. Do not accept this lightly. It will be hard-‘

‘That’s what she said.’

‘Dude.’

‘Sorry.’

The chuckles subdue and the speaker takes a breath before resuming their discourse, voice pitched low in the kind of tenor that incites excitement and concern for one’s safety.

‘It will be difficult,’ they continue, with a deft grasp of the listeners attentiveness, ‘but you alone can change the tides of history. Do you accept this quest, adventurers?’ A moment of silence settles over the crowd as worried glances are shared, but quick to harden with determination. A wicked grin splits the narrator’s lips.

‘There exists a land by the name of Amael, far from all familiar coasts. It is a continent rife with changing landscapes and magical properties, untouched by the knowledge of our people. Legend says it is the land of the Gods, where celestial beings cohabitate with humans and beasts. It speaks of forgotten kingdoms and a weapon capable of bringing a God to its knees. It speaks of a scarred land, scorched by human grievances, and godly anger. It speaks of fear, a terrible foe that lives in the heart of Amael, brought to life by the purest of evil to terrorize the land. It is said that this evil stalks the sky, bringing night wherever it goes, plunging those who have the misfortune of crossing its path into darkness. This evil has a name, one which is whispered fearfully at high noon, when the sun is at its apex, and cried with desperation at dusk as night envelops all those who dare breathe: the Dagroth.

’No one is safe from its hunger, as it scours the Outskirts in search of new prey, before returning to its lair in the Bad Lands where it slumbers and waits. Those who have survived had to adapt, becoming nomadic travellers, pushed on by the fear of devouring that nips at their heels. Every few months the sky darkens on the horizon, and the air fills with a chill that penetrates to the bone. They must dig out their patchwork tents from shallow grounds, unearth meek provisions from dry soil, and carry what little they have for miles, until they are safe from the Dagroth’s path once more. There are tails of druids who have grown traveling forests to the north, to avoid its wrath, of dwarfs who have built elaborate caverns too deep to be reached. There is word, even, or orcs and merciless souls to the south who have struck a pact with the Dagroth: their safety in exchange for fresh flesh. But for the common folk, nowhere is safe from these unforgiving lands. No where, except the Floating Isles.

‘Beyond the Wystir Mountains, beyond the void, lies a land protected by fearsome magical rulers. Their subjects are protected by the power of these Queen Mages, which rivals that of the Dagroth. They have no fear, and definitely no pity for those who break the laws of these protected lands, and are cast out of the kingdom to live in the Outskirts. The Isles are a sacred place, protected by the Gods who took pity on mortals and granted them safety from the Dagroth.

‘But the sky is darkening once more, this time, over the usually unencumbered skies of the Floating Isles. The Queens assure their subject they are safe from the threat looming beyond the void, but not all are convinced.

‘The threat is real, and fear is coursing through the blood of a nation. No one is safe.’

A clap of thunder echoes these words and the adventurers grip their weapons and dice. The time draws nigh. Reckless abandon seeps into skin and scales, and a war cry rises among the party, guttural, raw. The scrapping of chairs drowns out the rain and as the crescendo of the viol backs the stomping of feet. The masked figure sets its elbows on the table, bringing the tips of each finger together to hide the grin behind a mask of shadows. Light dances in their eyes.

Oh, this is going to be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My my my, hello again. Hope ya enjoyed and will manage to wait out the century before the next chapter. I'll really try writing this a tad more regularly than... well anything else I've ever written but we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> For all curious souls, we run 5e mechanics in a homebrew setting. I steal most of my monsters from the monster manual because I just can't be bothered to homebrew them (I'm in college I don't have the time). Still, I tend to sometimes just throw in some spice and setting-related alternatives to the classic monsters so don't go tearing my head off because it's not as written in the Wizards of the Coast bible. You'll also notice I took the gods from the Forgotten Realms settings because, again, I don't have the time to homebrew everything. But! I did allow my warlock to make his own patron because the Player Handbook options were a tad limited, and the backstory he came up with for his character was just so good. So look forwards to that. 
> 
> If anyone has any questions about how I run the game, hit me up in the comments. To be fair, this was the first campaign I ever created and ran, so I'm not the best reference, but I have now run close to 40 sessions with this band of ruffians, so I'm not the worse either. (Also if anyone catches any inconsistencies and plot holes my players haven't noticed yet, just let me know and I will fix it without telling them. No one else needs to know.)
> 
> I'll try to infuse this narration with as much sass and spontaneity my table usually puts into their role-play. They really are a great party and I hope that shines through my writing. This is my campaign, but this is their story. I probably won't do them justice, but I'll try my best. 
> 
> See ya next session!


	2. A Trade of Sorts, for the Fate of the World (Session 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my! A chapter! What sorcery is this! Insane I know. This is chapter 1, technically only half of our first session because, well, 6 hours of game play does not condense easily into a few thousand words. This chapter is also 8k long??? So yeah, this is only part 1 of session 1. I wrote this surprisingly fast all things considered, not much to do in quarantine except study for finals and anyone who knows me knows I can only do that for a few hours a day before going stir crazy. Anyway, I'm gonna stop stalling, here's the chapter! Hopefully my players take kindly to my interpretation of their characters...
> 
> Val, you're welcome. Now go do your final.

‘I thought they had already banished the bastard,’ harrumphed the purple-clad guard, giving a swift, if ineffective, kick to the dragging legs of the prisoner she was hefting across the courtyard. The evening air was warm for the season, her linen shirt sticking to her skin beneath the chain mail of the uniform. She blew a rebellious strand from her eyes, knocking her head back to get her helm to sit proper.

‘Clearly not,’ answered a rougher fellow in similar dress. He was lugging a larger, somewhat dirt-coloured humanoid shape by the shackles that barely circled the huge wrists of the thing, and struggling to cast his voice low in a conspirational tone while simultaneously catching his breath. ‘I bet they kept him in the dungeons and tortured him as revenge for treason and -‘

‘Hey!’ Cut the guard at the head of the group with a quick glare to the two. They immediately straightened to attention. ‘Shut it. Speculation will only get ya throne in the dungeon with the rest of ‘em’ He was clearly the oldest of the retinue, the front of his lavender tunic decorated with a variety of pins and symbols sown into the thick fabric, creases etched permanently into the space between his eyebrows. His hairline receding so far back on his head you couldn’t see it under his helm. He hefted the limp body of the young blond woman higher up on his shoulder and the chains binding her wrists and ankles rung out in the quiet bailey.

‘Yes captain.’ The two guards bowed their heads and started to trudge once more onwards in silence. The city wall were too far and too thick for the evening bustle to be heard from the inner keep. Only the sound of their issued leather boots hitting the familiar cobblestone path that lead from the cells to the throne room accompanied them. The darkness was creeping across the sky steadily, but the guards avoided looking at it, lest they enjoyed the tendrils of fear coiling in their stomachs at the sight. Instead, they focused on the abnormally even cobblestones. History taught that each stone had been individually carved by the first inhabitants of the Floating Isles. They had been gifted to the Queens to build their seat of power, over a century ago now. Shadows crawled along those same stones, making the names inscribed on the edges of each indistinguishable in the dimming light. The small retinue of guards walked briskly against the night, their steps hastened by the growing darkness. The Queens, after all, kept them safe.

‘He’s the one who lead the attack on the Western Outpost. They found him hiding in the Wystir Mountains a few weeks later and now the Queens are going to make him feel the death of every soldier he killed that night.’

The heads of the two young guards perked up at that. The older man hadn’t bothered looking back, marching on as if he hadn’t said anything. The girl threw a disgusted look to her ward, but the broader boy’s eyes turned inquisitive.

‘But I though it was the Tainted Bloods who attacked the Western Outpost, for revenge against the Queens’ he supplied. The girl rolled her eyes.

‘You think a bunch of kids with spears took down a whole outpost?’ She mocked.

’They’re criminals. Some know magic.’ He defended, ‘its what the town crier’s been saying.’

‘You think that would be enough? They even had a few of the Naeve there. If anything, the Queens are covering up that it was the Dagroth’s doing -‘

The whole group came to a grinding halt as the decorated soldier swung on his heel to fist the front of the girl’s tunic, giving her a violent shake. She dropped her charge from the shock, and the deadweight crumpled to the ground without her support. The crease between the older man’s eyebrows deepened almost impossibly.

‘Never speak that name!’ His bulging amber eyes blazed beneath the helm. ‘Foolish girl, do you want to invoke its wrath?’ He shook her again and her hands curled around his wrist, trying to keep him from tearing her uniform. ‘Maybe I should send you to the Western Outpost yourself, a few Tainted Bloods could pick you off with ease.’ He spat. Her hands trembled, but her jaw stayed clamped shut, here grey eyes hard. He released her with a shove. She stumbled back a bit, her hand going to her chest to rub out the crease where his knuckles had pushed the chain mail against the skin of her neck. The defiant glare she threw his way was lost on the older man however, his gaze resting on the crumpled form of the man she had dropped. Her own eyes followed and fell onto the unseeing eyes of the tiefling prince.

The woven sack that had been covering his features had caught in his curling black horns and uncovered his face in his fall. Blue skin pulled tight around his wide, yellow, slit-pupil eyes that stared back, glazed over. Gold trinkets decorated his horns and neck, and gold paint had been smeared on his eyelids, glinting against the deep blue tint of his skin in something akin to beautiful. She shook herself. He was a beast, a monster. And, in his current state, a harmless one at that. Still, the guard felt those cat-like eyes watch her, remembering her face, as if to later trace if with the edge of a dagger.

‘Cover that up. And hurry. The Queens wait for no one. Least of all you.’ Ordered the captain and moved ahead, repositioning the unconscious girl on his shoulder. The guard crouched by the tiefling and pulled the linen over his seemingly unseeing eyes, before hauling him up by his shackles and matching step with the formation. They trudged through the lower courtyard in tense silent. The keep rose over the horizon, painted in the darkness of the West while dusk had yet to even touch the eastern horizon. They continued on along the inner curtain wall as servants lit the torches, towards the great hall. She kept her mouth shut after that, but a quick look to her friend found him bitting his lip in the way he did when something wasn’t adding up in his head.

‘What,’ she whispered, ‘What are you thinking?’ The boy looked up from his boots, and after a cautious glance to the back of the older man, answered her in a low tone.

‘Well, him’ and he jutted his chin out to indicate the prince she was ever so casually dragging across the cobblestone, ‘I understand why he warrants the Queens to come to the Meet. But they didn’t even call in the judiciary councillors. So, what did the rest of them do to get themselves a one-way ticket to the Outskirts?’

The girl’s gaze flitted to the blond woman in the emblazoned tunic of the Guild of Glowing Hands, unceremoniously throne over the captain’s shoulder; then to the humanoid in the gladiator-styled skirt who could have been mistaken for a an abnormally shaped stone statue that her friend was dragging; to the small bird creature who’s red eyes glowed through the fabric of the burlap sac a fellow guard was hefting by the shackles on its hocks; to the bearded dwarf yet another one was carrying on his back; to the hulking paladin cloaked in a dusty white hood, slung between two more guards in the provincial garb. Her face scrunched as she came to the same lack of conclusions her colleague had.

‘What ever it is, it had to be bad.’ She switched her grip on the limp body of the tiefling, ‘I mean, they wouldn’t even lift the paralysis when they were in the dungeons. They have to be dangerous.’

The boy nodded, seemingly convinced by her words, but his eyes stayed focused on the indigo hand painted on the woman’s crimson robes. They were apprentice robes, easily recognizable, meant to be worn by students of the School of General Magic from the province of Ilmater. And the blue hand, the symbol of the Guild of Glowing Hands, represented magic wielders who volunteered as healers in the northern provinces and at the Front. They were well liked by anyone in the guard and military for their selfless endangerment for the sake of others. Squishy wizards in the midst of war torn zones wasn’t for the faint of heart. Who she could have murdered, and why, to end up here, was his best guess.

~/~

‘The paralysis will lift the second we step through the archway, prepare for resistance. Use force if necessary.’ Ordered the captain of the guard gruffly. The small battalion shifted their stances, hands resting readily on the pommels of their swords. The first of two white stone arches rose above the path. They seemed to be the product of two sets of collapsed pillars that precariously leaned together at a junction high above the lane that lead to the doors and the great hall beyond. However hazardous, they stood unyielding to the warm seasonal breeze, pristine in the fading light. The torch flame caught the engravings, deep complex curling runes along the length of them. Only five feet of cobblestone separated both domed columns, yet they towered high enough to accommodate even the largest of humanoids, level with the balcony windows of the hall. The Queen’s Meet, however, had not been privy to giants in quite some time.

The first to cross the threshold was the decorated soldier, who took no care in dropping the blond wizard from his shoulder rather unceremoniously as soon as the curtain of magic washed over him. Her knees buckled the second her feet hit the ground, but he held her up with a steely grip. Her senses came back to her slowly, as did her footing, and she reached her manacled hands to remove the woven sack from her head. The guard jerked her arms back down and shoved her forward pass the second arche. 

‘Don’t try anything stupid.’ He hissed in common. She seemed understand well enough, yielding to his direction, but only the keenest eye would have seen the icicles form like claws on her fingertips.

The guard dragging the tiefling prince crossed next, closely followed by her friend dragging the humanoid lump of stone. The curtain of magic washed over them like a thin rain, and the guard shivered from the feeling. Her charge went very still.

‘Get up.’ She ordered. The tiefling seemed quicker to throw off the effects of the spell than the wizard, but only slowly climbed to his feet, hands held out to signal non violence. His head swivelled around under the sack, as if taking in his surroundings, but he made no attempt to dispose of it. Instead, his hands dropped as he rightened his posture to regal a standing. Shoulder’s splayed back, whips of dark hair curling around the edges of the burlap, he turned to the second archway as if familiar with his surroundings already, bar the bag covering his eyes. The guard wondered momentarily if he possessed some kind of blindsight, but quickly shed the thought. He wouldn’t be her problem for much longer. She edged him on with the tip of her blade, and the fallen prince strutted through the second archway with the elegance of royalty, and the heaviness of a dead man walking.

The lump of rock on the other hand, immediately threw a wild right hook in the general direction of his captor with a roar worthy of war the second his head had been dragged past the magical demarcation. The guards surrounding the inner courtyard all moved in synch to intervene, but a brisk motion from the captain stilled their movements. Sloppy as it was from the aftereffects of the paralysis, the swing missed by a few feet. This only seem to enrage the beast of a man more, but it at least got the poor young guard to drop the chain around his ankles. The shambling shape lumbered to its feet with surprising speed, hands reflexively going to the empty weapons sheath on his back and belt. Noticing the lack of armament, he curled both fists, head turning towards the sound of steel against leather without even thinking to take off the sac, but the point of a sword poised against his throat stilled his movements.

’S-Stop.’ Came the faltering order, and the shirtless barbarian smirked under the sack. A quick pommel hit to the temple sent stars dancing across the dark backdrop of tightly woven fabric. He pitched forwards and the sword returned against the small of his back in the time it took for him to shake off the daze. It prodded his kidney.

‘Move.’ Came the earlier voice, now somewhat more forceful. The barbarian stood stoic. The sword trembled against his skin for a moment before bitting. A rivulet of blood trickled down his spine, and grinding his teeth, the hulking man took a begrudging step forwards.

The bird didn’t put up a fight. His guard set him down and kept a wary eyes on the feathered creature, but all he seemed to do was quickly comb through the folds of his robes. Whatever he found or didn’t find, curved his protruding beak into what could only defined as a smirk, much to the displeasure of the lanky guard towering over him, about twice his size.

‘Oh god, that’s worse than a hangover from Haven moonshine.’ Muttered the dwarf behind them. He stumbled and hung onto his guard like a mate from the tavern. The man practically dropped his sword in an effort to support the stout fellow. The dwarf patted his head as if marvelled by the burlap sac he found there. ‘Is this customary of the Isles?’ He asked, as they faltered past the second archway together. The rest of the small retinue waited beyond as the captain had been stalled by a courtier at the door.

The last two guards dragged the final captive through the glittering archway and expected the worse, but the paladin didn’t move from his slumped position between them. The two guards hoisting him up threw each other a confused look. They gave the hooded figure a shake, but still no reaction. One guard looked up at the arches as if the antimagic could be to blame.

‘Is he dead?’

’Here, take him.’ They shifted most of the weight onto one of the guards while the other crouched in front of the figure, lifting a hand to push back the sac. A flash of white, the sound of bones breaking, and one of the guard was on the ground cradling a shattered wrist, the other on his knees with his own sword against his throat. The towering paladin ripped off the sac and stared down the dozen guards that had rushed from the their posts along the castle courtyard to surround him. Sharp eyes made mean by the glaring scar stretched across the bridge of his nose, the paladin didn’t seem aware of the odds as he brought the sword threateningly closer to his prey’s neck. The guard’s adam’s apple bobbed against the blade. A tuff of white hair, contrasted by the rest of poorly kept black, swept across the offenders forehead as if to accentuate the frown there. A guard approached him cautiously from the front, but the man only tightened his hold on his hostage, eyes flitting across the courtyard for an escape route.It was wide open, crisscrossing paths through small plots of grass and flowers giving it the appearance of a garden, but the number of guards, and the lack of obvious exits made it into a devious kind of trap. The open area was completely surrounded by four tall walls. More could be seen peaking from behind them. The horizon was nothing but white stone and mortar dotted with surprisingly elegant windows and strategic arrowslits. The main opening in the square was the massive set of double doors beyond the second archway. They stood well over ten feet tall, dark oak and fortified with steel bolts and plates. The paladin didn’t have time to appreciate the woodwork that the flat of a blade caught his hand, and another the back of his knees. His sword skidded out of reach, and he was quickly apprehended from behind by two more guards. They roughly shoved him forwards while a dozen other blades - and arrows, he could now see glinting in the arrowslits - stayed poised to strike him. He stared each of them down mercilessly.

~/~

‘My Queens.’ Bowed low the court herald, ducking his head from the powerful gazes of the seven women seated before him, ‘The requested prisoners have been brought.’

He stood dead centre in the Great Hall, equidistant from the monarchs and the shy courtiers who tried to melt into the doors behind them. The balconies above were overstuffed, as per usual, with attending nobles and people of the court, especially so considering the unusual sight of all seven queens seated together. The usual chairs and tables that occupied the floor had been removed on account of the missing councillors, and it only proved to aggrandize the already overwhelming presence of the rulers. Not a smidgeon of air in the room was not occupied by the pressure of magic. It practically made the window panes shake.

A haughty laugh echoed in the great hall, crystalline and pure. The herald allowed his gaze to lift from his shoes and rest on the Mage Queen of Lliira. Seated crosslegged on a throne of plush cushions and various ornaments and festive decorations, her golden curls bounced and her head shook as she giggled. A few strands caught in the chrysanthemum carved into the backrest of her chair. Sharp eyes of indeterminate colour both sized him up and soothed him in a strange mixture of conflicting emotions.

‘My my, what rumours have been spreading. The court is busy as ever I see.’ She replied, ‘They aren’t prisoners, they are guests!’ her voice bounced off the marble floors that courtiers shuffled on nervously. The herald, still low in his bow, let his gaze fall back to his toes, his stomach suddenly somewhere around his knees.

‘They were brought from the dungeons, Exalted.’ He managed to push out in a breath. The courtiers all stopped whispering to look at the wide smile still spread across the youthful features of the Mage Queen of Lliira. She giggled again, golden earrings in the shape of humming birds swinging wildly on their perch, nose scrunched in a charming and disarming way.

‘How silly Jusgen, of course they weren’t.’ The smile only widened as the words rung like chimes in the great hall. The melody mesmerizing the courtiers and servants lining the walls and balconies. It bounced off the high vaulted ceilings and settled somewhere behind the eyes of the onlookers. Even Jusgen blinked, dazed as he rose from his low bow to meet the penetrating gaze of the woman. His eyes flitted to the golden circlet adorning her hair, a row of opals winked back at him.

‘Of course not your Majesty. My deepest apologies.’ He uttered as if appart from himself.

‘Jusgen.’

He turned his attention to the tall blond woman seated second from the left in the semicircle of thrones. The Mage Queen of Eldath perched on the edge of her throne, amidst a bouquet of white poppies that never withered. They covered the stone seat as if growing from the very granite. Frail features surrounded shrewd blue eyes that pinned him to the spot. Her thin lips blanched into a thin smile.

‘Exalted.’ He bowed low again, his fringe sweeping the marble floor.

‘Rise.’ She spoke, her voice rich and deep, gravely, as if each word was hard earned. He did as ordered, but kept his chin against his chest. ’Break court while we entertain our… guests. Return on the hour with the scribe and the crier for the hearing.’

‘Of course your Majesty. Shall I leave courtier to attend?’

’That will not be necessary.’ She answered dismissively.

‘Of course your Highness. Shall I send to the kitchens for refreshments?’

’No. Thank you Jusgen.’

‘Of course my Queen. Shall I -‘

‘Jusgen.’ His name sounded like a death sentence. The interruption came from the Queen poised in the middle of the semi circle dais on which the thrones were placed. There had been a warning in her tone, or perhaps simply - hopefully - exasperation. Jusgen let his gaze stray to her, fearful of what he would find. Decked in finely knitted quilts and what appeared to be tokens of birth that spilt from the dais into the stone floor from their sheer number, her throne was a warm welcoming sight. The queen herself, however looked rather haggard. Her face was hidden behind a curtain of brown hair, her head cradled in her hand as she leaned on the arm of her throne. Her crown lay crooked on her head.

‘Exalted -‘

‘Leave, Jusgen.’ She took a breath to let the ice in her tone melt, ‘Leave us to our… Guests.’

‘Of course your Majesty.’ He bowed again, so low she feared he’d fracture his skull on the marble. He rose and with a sweeping motion to the courtiers and servants in attendance, to the balconies open to public counsel, he cleared the room. The balconies along the long walls of the great hall emptied out into antechambers on either side, while most of the crowd in the hall itself ducked into adjoining hallways, or left through the overlarge doors leading to the vestibule, and beyond that, the lower courtyard. Servants finished lighting the sconces and tidying the room before taking their leave as well, leaving none but the Naeve to oversee the following events. Of the handful of men remaining, each was posted along the walls of the hall at regular intervals. Their bright orange tunics and mean looking swords had kept them from blending in with the crowd of courtiers, but they stood out even more now, contrasting only with the sparkling marble in the candlelight. They stood still as statues in the flickering flames, expressions darkened by the shadows cast. The hall faced West so the tall windows along the hall were dark even as dusk barely skimmed the eastern skies, but the great painted panes beyond the thrones still shone with ethereal light. Against the onslaught of western threat, the Queen Mages would remain a bright beacon of hope.

‘Lathander.’

‘Helm?’

‘How about you get that head of yours out of your own ass and look like a Queen for once.’ The stout woman had leaned forwards on her throne of steel and molten metal to look the Queen of Lathander square in the eye. Surrounded by scarred shields like peacock’s feathers, with her braids pulled back as not to obscure her scowl, the Queen of Helm was not one who handled rebuttal well. At least she’d had the decency to mock her in primordial, least the Naeve catch wind of her impudence.

‘I’m sorry, does my state of disarray not amuse you? Might I remind you who we will be entertaining in the next few minutes?’

‘He’s not your flesh.’

’Neither are your sons.’

Silence befell the great hall.

‘More so than yours.’ Helm harrumphed and sat back against her throne of armour, crossing her arms petulantly. Lathander sighed deeply, but nevertheless readjusted her crown and sat back against her throne, upright and proud. Lliira was giving her an encouraging smile while the Queen of Eldath purposefully refused to cross her cool gaze. The redhead at the end of the row of thrones leaned forwards, hands held palm facing upwards, empty.

‘We didn’t have a choice.’ Her voice held the sound of warm winds and cornucopias. Her emerald eyes shown like jewels, apologetic, her freckled cheeks pulled taunt into a pitying smile.

‘I am not opening this subject up for discussion.’ Replied Lathander, sitting impossibly taller, hands gripping the armrests of her throne impossibly tighter.

‘We are simply worried, can you go on like this? Will you be able to do what must be done when the time comes?’ Came the low tone from the complete opposite direction. throne bound in lengths of thick rope, the woman stood out by her appearance. Though all the Queens dressed in the traditional royal garb, high collared white robes and gold jewelry, only two seemed battle-hardened, whilst the others entertained the appearances of pampered royalty. Helm was callous and strong, shoulders wide and muscular from weapons training. Illmater on the other hand, was tall and powerful, her strength hidden in the coils of muscled that ran down her legs and arms like sinuous rope, shoulders rolling like a panther.

‘That time is now, do not think me foolish Illmater. And do not pretend you hold no fault in the matter.’ Lathander’s voice had hardened, and Eldath’s gaze finally snapped to her.

‘Fault? It has been months and you can’t stop blaming people for one bloody second long enough to understand that the only one at fault for the mistakes of that boy is you Lathander.’ She had risen from her throne of poppies as if to inflict her wrath with the frail form of her fists. Lathander barely spared her a withering glare.

‘Eldath I swear to the Ancient One - ‘

‘What befell the boy is of no one’s fault but fate’s.’ Cut off the final Mage Queen of the Floating Isles with finality heavy enough to anchor a ship. She sat between the Queens of Lliira and Illmater, but by no means overshadowed. Though she spoke little, her words held the volumes of novels, and poured from her lips like thick honey. The sound was impossible to ignore, the sight of her beauty impossible to forget. Her throne was nothing more than a distant abstract distraction from the woman who occupied it. The Queen of Sune cast a heavy lidded look to each of the queens who settled and rightened. ‘We should not make destiny wait.’

‘Open the doors.’

~/~

The prisoners - sorry, guests - were thrust forwards before the Queen Mages of the Floating Isles with about as much care and attention one would a dead rat. Most of the eclectic group had been shoved past the vestibule into the room, still bound and blinded, by uncaring and sword-calloused hands. The paladin was not so much dropped as violently deposited on the marble floor, kneecaps smacking loudly on the stone behind the other so called guests. Those still stuck with a bag over their heads could distinctly make out the now echoing quality to the cling and clang of the chainmail and plate pushing them around. They’d been brought into a hall of sorts, a big one at that.

The bags were wrenched from their respective heads and the honourable guests blinked the bright pins of lights from their vision, trying to get accustomed to the intangible sunlight pouring in through the floor to ceiling painted glass windows. A kaleidoscope of colors collided with the expanse of white marble that made up essentially every inch of the great hall. The vaulted ceilings rose high enough for birds to have nested in the crux of the intricate carvings and statues that depicted the history of Isles across a skyscape of stars. The floor was polished sufficiently to make out one’s reflection, which did nothing to attenuate the blinding reflected mosaic design of the glass panes. Positioned directly in the rays of light was a semi circle dais raised a few inches off the ground and laden with a set of seven high-backed thrones. Facing this onslaught of clarity, the newcomers could not distinguish the occupants from the chairs. Six other figures cast long shadows along the floor, standing at intervals between the queens like towering stone statues.

‘How silly, unbind them.’ Came the order, sweetened yet sharp. The words resonated through the room as if magically amplified, even if simply spoken conversationally.

‘Exalted.’ Bowed the captain, eyes shifting to the Naeve stationed along the walls of the room, ’These prisoners are very dangerous, they’ve already attempted-‘

‘You dare question your Queen, mortal?’ Boomed the tenor amidst the thrones, somewhere to the left from the original query. One of the statues shifted, took a step forward. The light rays danced across his golden hair and light complexion, strange shadows curling into a grimace much to ugly for the gifted features of the man. A hand shot out to catch his wrist from the nearest throne and a guttural warning echoed low through the halls.

The barbarian, standing far above six feet, the color of deserts the likes of the Isles couldn’t even imagine, smirked. After all, he was the only on in the room apart from the those standing in the dais that had caught the reply in primordial. Loosely translated, it was an insult for impertinence and a promise of retribution along the lines of what a mother might inflict a petulant child. It was rather amusing.

‘Unbind them.’ Came the order a second time, the voice much less sweet and much more promising of a swift demise to any who dare transgress it. The captain immediately lurched into action from where he’d been frozen in what the guests could only rightfully assume to be terror. Manacles dropped to the floor, the sound of metal ringing through the great hall with aggression and violence it was rather familiar with. Once they all stood rubbing the circulation back into their stiff joints - even the paladin who had retreated into the sanctity of his dusty white hood - the queen spoke again.

’Thank you captain. That is all that will be required of you. Please leave us to our guests.’ The intonation hung heavy on the last words and even those still bearing the bruises of shackles started to wonder why exactly so many guards were in attendance to a visit of pleasantries.

‘Exalted.’ Bowed the captain, and shepherded his regiment from the great hall, letting the heavy doors shut with a resounding smack that made the wall quiver. Or perhaps that was the magic.

‘Come forward dearies.’ Came the same voice again, pleasant this time, awash with charm and the quality of leisurely strolls along coastlines. The small group of strangers moved as one, propulsed by some strange pull towards the semi circle of thrones. Most seemed begrudging, trying to resist the subconscious need to hear the voice again, but the tiefling took a shuddering breath and walked right up to the focal point of the room, mouth pursed and features stony.

The light shifted as he stood dead centre in the room, fanning out behind the thrones like a bright sun just setting behind the dais. It cast the seven queens in a golden glow, giving a celestial quality to their already overpowering presence. Draped in the finest white silks, they sat united, terrifying sublime gathered so, splayed out across the dais amidst lavish gifts and offerings made in the name of each of their patron goddesses. They sat impossibly erect, still as the marble that decked the hall, faintly otherworldly features schooled into various interpretations of welcoming, some coming closer to hostile. The Mage Queen of Lliira had a large grin plastered on her girlish face, but the tiefling was staring somewhere above all their heads, at the impossible light streaming in behind them. Legend said, he recalled, that they had sacrificed their namesakes for immortality, a pact made with each of the goddesses of the life domain. Considering the presence of the six royal princes at the sides of their mothers, and his own current presence in the room he had been banished from not some few months ago, the forsaken prince wondered vaguely if that pact had a time limit, one which was steadily approaching.

Raising both hands to the vaulted ceiling, he made a large sweeping motion, ducking into a perfect curtsy, head bowed only to the proffered high of one of the royal bloodline. His presence was a favour, not a commodity.

‘Exalted’ He intoned in common, as was proper to address the gathering of monarchs. He rose and finally settled his gaze on the dais, particularly, on the Mage Queen of Lathander. She sat alone amidst the crowd of her sisters and their sons.

‘Mother.’ He addressed, his voice morphing into the spitfire language his bloodline bestowed him. Her expression pinched as the infernal registered, but she made no move to acknowledge him otherwise.

‘Alright, alright.’ Spoke up a gravely voice from behind him, with about as much reverence as if he was speaking to some urchin on the street. The tiefling’s gaze flickered over his shoulder to watch the overlarge shirtless barbarian approach the thrones with a leisure step. Arms crossed over a wide expanse of scarred chest, biceps bulging in ways which could not discern flexing from simply oversize, his face was split into a toothy smirk. The Naeve reached for their swords.

‘What can we do for you ladies?’ The man drawled, slipping naturally into the guttural register of primordial. The effect was immediate, the petite blond queen blushing prettily, even as her son stepped forwards again as if to manhandle the barbarian into proper polite submission.

‘Impudence!’ The prince spat, hands fisting at his side. A few of the Naeve took a cautionary step forward but a dismissive wave from the Mage Queen of Helm held them at bay. The barbarian lifted his hands, palm facing outwards. Though the gesture was meant to be dissuasive, it held a certain edge of intimidation, a my-hand-is-the-circumference-of-your-neck kind of implication.

‘Now now, I didn’t mean no impoliteness. You see, it’s just that me and my fellow colleague over there,’ he jerked his head back to the diminutive bird person with the goggles who’s eyes glowed an ominous red through the lenses, ‘have been dragged here under the assumption of contract work. Nothing was said about kidnapping and dungeons. So unless you have a handsome pile of gold coins somewhere to pay for personal damages inflicted, on top of our usual fee, we’ll be on our way.’ And with that he spun on his heel and made his way towards the doors of the great hall. ‘C’mon Cackle.’ He called and the bird, after a long appraising glare for the seven queens, turned as well.

‘Halt.’ Ordered the Queen Mage of Helm, she stood from her throne, only a few feet of height, but her presence only grew in effect, ‘You will be rewarded.’

‘Payed.’ Said the bird in a voice which could not possibly be its own. It had indeed come from the vicinity of the feathered creature, but the sultry tones and deep voice seemed the kind of thing whispered in back alleys by scantily clad young women.

‘Payed.’ The queen amended, ‘More so than you can possibly imagine.’

‘We’re getting paid?’ muttered the dwarf with a questioning look to the wizard. She sported a confused frown and gave a shrug, about as lost as him. The barbarian spun back to the queens with a full fledge grin.

‘Alright, now you have my attention.’

The queens shared a look that Lathander refrained from meeting. Her own eyes were dissecting the crown molding above the hall doors with enough ice to freeze over the province. The frail queen shifted on her throne of poppies, bringing her finger together and appraising the group with a critical eye.

‘We wish to employ the services of all those here, in various versions of the term.’ She began, dragging the syllables over war torn land to drop them on the marble. The barbarian stopped her right there.

‘Like together? Because Cackle and I don’t really work well with others.’

The queen’s sharp gaze snapped to him over the tips of her nails.

‘Yes. You are all require to complete this quest.’ Her sharp eyes wandered anew, analyzing the expressions of all those present, ‘and you all will agree to it.’ That garnered a reaction. The barbarian was already halfway through explaining how freelance work allowed them to turn down any client they might feel the need to, the wizard had pipped up asking to please backtrack to what-the-ever-loving-gods-was-going-on, and the dwarf was still trying to understand if he should use the term ‘Exalted’ when addressing them or simply go with ‘Queens’. The tiefling couldn’t help but laugh humourlessly at his own lack of foresight.

‘Do you have what I want?’ Ground out the paladin through painfully clenched teeth. The low growl was enough to cut through the objections flying through the air. By the tick in his jaw it was clear he wasn’t done breaking bones that day, and the fury in his eyes was focused with pin point accuracy at the slim neck of the Mage Queen of Eldath. She smiled thinly, the kind that didn’t reach the eyes.

‘We do.’

The paladin took one slow calculating step forward, very clearly demanding what was keeping him from tearing her limb from limb that very instant, instead of frolicking through pastures on a quest to retrieve what he had come for.

‘And you will receive what you search upon completion of the quest.’ She answered, and he took another step, ‘Do not test me.’ He stopped. A pin could be heard falling in the heavy silence now coating the room. The group of prisoners had split down the middle, giving a clear line of sight to the mortal who dared defy a queen. ‘You will not like the outcome.’

‘Spare me the theatrics. Who do I need to kill.’ The words sunk like lead in the thick quiet, and the second they hit the marble floor, the room erupted once more into chaos.

‘Hey if anyone’s doing the killing it’s me, okay tough guy?’ challenged the barbarian.

‘Hold on, no one said anything about money or murder.’ Argued the dwarf.

‘What the hell is going on?’ yelled the wizard.

The Mage Queen of Helm slammed down her fist against the armrest of her thrown with much the same force and effect slamming the doors to the great hall would have done. A resounding crack followed as the molten metal splintered like driftwood and fell with a loud clang to the dais. The windows shook. The dwarf trembled. Lathander stood up.

‘The Dagroth approaches.’ She said, and her words had the effect of years suddenly condensing together in the span of a moment. The air in the room became thin as everyone inhaled too sharply. The words hung in the middle of the room, where they festered. Her voice spanned ages, untouched, those of the past century of peace and prosperity in the safety of the Isles, tarnished, by the blood and chaos that had preceded them, and those yet to come. Her tone spoke of cities razed, of children of war, of blood soaked fields and unyielding enemies. It held the heaviness of a head of state tasked with making decisions what would lead only onto death, if not imminently, eventually. It sounded at once like a rallying cry, and the sound of white cloth whipped by gales in the fields of fallen.

’The sky darkens over our people. The threat is clear. It is imminent. We ask… We implore your help.’

‘Under duress.’ Snapped the paladin.

‘Call it proper motivation.’ Replied Lliira with a dimple.

‘We don’t have a choice.’ Answered Lathander, and the tiefling’s eyes shot up at that.

‘A choice?’ He whispered. ‘A choice?’ He yelled, and she flinched. She flinched and looked away. ‘Why aren’t you headed West as we speak to deal with this threat? Do the mighty Mage Queens of the Floating Isles fear the Dagroth so?’ His tone was mocking, he already knew the answer. Illmater provided it nonetheless.

‘The people are safe here under our protection, and they will continue to believe so. Panic would be of help to no one in the current circumstances.’

‘What do you tell them the shadows in the sky are eh? A trick of the light? A seasonal anomaly?’ He pressed.

‘We tell them not to worry.’ Offered Lliira, as if the answer had been evident. The tiefling shook his head, dejected.

‘And they believe you. Of course they do.’ His eyes snapped to Eldath who’s fingers had torn through a poppy somewhere in the middle of the argument. ‘Do they do it of their own free will?’

‘Oslo enough.’ Cut Lathander, but as their eyes finally crossed, it was not her son she saw in those golden irises.

’That is not my name.’ He growled as the white of his eyes flooded with black, his eyelashes alight with tendrils of green fire.

‘Oh? It’s not?’ Called out Eldath. She had thrown away the crumpled poppy and now sat crossed legged, looking much too smug for comfort. ‘And what do you go by now, tiefling?’ The fallen prince blinked and his eyes turned back to slit pupils, the fire extinguishing. A small smirk uncovered a fang as he look down on her through his eyelashes.

’You can call me Ardent, bitch.’ And the tension in the room shot through the roof. Eldath was on her feet, her seven foot tall son already halfway off the dais, a glaive in hand making a beeline for Ardent. Lathander had somehow vaulted past two thrones to hold the other queen back. Helm and Illmater were standing, golden sickles materializing in the hands of the second as the first just cracked her knuckles whispering something about it being damn time. Lliira looked faintly alarmed for the first time that day and Sune simply rolled her eyes at the display.

Ardent was very rapidly starting to regret the decisions that had lead him to this very moment in his life, standing amidst the chaos of seven powerful Mage Queens, having incurred the wrath of at least one, her seven foot tall son charging him with a sword on a stick and a pretty convincing murderous gaze. It was also, strangely, a rather familiar set of circumstances. He didn’t have long to dwell on the deja vu that the prince of Eldath was upon him and he had barely managed to summon a lick of flame to his palm. The glaive sung as it came swinging down and Ardent lifted both arms to protect his head more out of instinct than out of confidence that a few inches of skin and bone would stop a full strength hit. He didn’t have to find out.

The clang of metal reverberated through the room as the glaive struck the edge of a longsword. The prisoners all looked between each other to find the one selfless enough to have thrown themselves between a charging prince and an infernal being, but all were accounted for. Ardent finally unscrewed his eyes and blinked up at a small ponytail of chestnut hair, tied back with a length of leather. His gaze flickered upwards and he stumbled a step back from the terror of having the snarling face of the prince of Eldath within spitting distance. He was suddenly very grateful for the presence of a body between them, one it seemed, belonging to the queens personal retinue. The bright orange tunic was a dead giveaway, but what Ardent couldn’t understand was why the man had not simply watched him get beheaded. Really, just about anyone would have payed to see that a few months ago.

‘Enough!’

Everyone stilled, and as one, turned to the redheaded queen standing on her throne, hands cupped around her mouth to call to them. Her chest heaved, and she had the decency to look a bit put out by the sudden attention, a rush of heat pinking her freckled shoulders and neck. She jumped down from her throne and gave them all a really, very convincing, imploring look. Cackle and the barbarian stepped away from the door they had been inching towards in the midst of the fray. The wizard let the ice melt from her hands, the dwarf lowered his fists. Ardent watched as the guard pushed back the prince, but did not lower his sword.

‘Please,’ she called to them, ‘we care for our people. We have kept them safe this long, we only wish for them to continue to thrive on these lands. They are safe here on the Isles, but only as long as we remain as well. The magic that shields them is ours. If we leave to confront the…’ The Made Queen of Chauntea swallowed thickly, ‘The Dagroth, then we leave these lands ripe for the picking by its underlings. It has been gathering forces, along the Inner Sea. The attacks on the front have become more numerous, more violent. Too many lives have already been lost. We are desperate.’ She pleaded. Ardent looked up once more to the Mage Queen of Lathander. Her crown was crooked, he noted.

‘And what exactly do you expect us to do, when even the Mage Queens of the Floating Isles are helpless to stop it?’ He asked. Lathander met his gaze evenly.

’To succeed, or perish trying.’ She replied.

‘Look I dont mean to interrupt this little family reunion going here, but I dont see how this affects us.’ Pitched in the barbarian.

‘Or us!’ Pipped up the wizard, pointing to herself and the dwarf who were now a unit as far as being out of the loop was concerned. The barbarian looked to them as if seeing them for the first time, and then brushed their presence away as easily as he had previously ignored it.

‘I’m Phyllite by the way, if we’re just sharing names now. And since Cackle and I are kind of from the peninsulas, you know, Inner Sea and all that, we wouldn’t exactly be against this whole place going up in flames.’ The bird nodded along.

‘As far as I understood, gold was worth more than loyalty in the peninsulas.’ Muttered Eldath.

‘Well you didn’t understand wrong, but this isn’t exactly an easy task, killing the Demogorgon of whatever you call it.’ Phyllite continued on. It was called bartering, and he was very good at it. Illmater threw him a leather sack the size of a fist. He caught it and weighed it appreciatively in his palm.

‘We usually take half payment before we leave, and half upon completion.’

‘You’ll get ten times.’ Phyllite raised and eyebrow. ‘Twenty times that amount if you return.’ She offered.

‘If?’

‘A hundred times.’

‘Alright, sounds good to me. Cackle?’

‘Yes.’ Moaned the bird in again yet another voice that aught to beyond to a lady of the night.

‘We’re in.’ Said Phyllite.

’So am I.’ Voiced the paladin who hadn’t moved at all during the brawl and subsequent yelling.

‘And you?’ Asked Eldath and the dwarf elbowed the wizard.

‘I think she means you.’

‘Me?’ Squeaked the wizard, because she was just about done not understanding what the hell was going on. Especially considering she had not exactly been planning on getting knocked out the moment she entered Esgrove to start her apprenticeship in the Queens’ library. She hadn’t been aware her apprenticeship would include epic quests and murder. Lliira leaned forwards with a warm smile.

‘Its Maenox, right dearie?’ She inquired, and Maenox nodded, ’This isn’t exactly what you were expecting was it?’

‘Well, the fallen prince was a bit of a surprise, also I didn’t think queens yelled so much.’ She said point blank. Lliira blinked. Sune laughed. Illmater practically jumped out of her skin at the sound, looking at the cackling queen as if her head had fallen off. The beautiful women whipped the tears from her eyes.

‘Oh, she kills me this one.’ She said catching her breath. ‘Child, come closer.’ And she curled her finger invitingly. To be fair, it was rather impossible to resist such an offer when made by the most beautiful women to ever grace Maenox’s ocular cones and rods. Add to that the wizard’s penchant for the female variety and the number of likely outcomes to the scenario dwindled to one. She practically sauntered to the dais, Dagroth’s defeating quest be dammed. The Mage Queen of Sune leaned in close, a hand raising to caress the wizard’s pinking cheek.

‘We choose our apprentices very carefully each year,’ She said, ‘The tasks set before you may seem daunting, but there is reason to this rhyme. You were chosen for this Maenox.’ As the queen whispered the words only loud enough for the wizard to hear, she gently thumbed a gold chain surrounding the girl’s neck. ‘You might not understand why at the moment, but you will find the answers along the way.’

Maenox nodded numbly, either from the overwhelming charm of the queen, or the ripple effect of understanding what exactly they were offering her in exchange for her help. She took a faltering step back out of the magical reach of the Queen of Sune, and looked up at Lathander.

‘I’ll do it.’

Lathander nodded, her eyes skimming the group, coming to a stop on the partially hidden figure of Ardent, still standing behind the Naeve.

‘Ardent.’ She called out, the syllables foreign on her tongue. Their eyes crossed for a moment and he stepped out from behind the guard to face her fully. He bowed, low.

‘I do this for you… My queen.’ He mocked humourlessly. Her gaze stayed a moment on him, his horns brushing the marble, before finally landing on the dwarf, still standing amid the patchwork party.

‘And you, druid? Do you now have what you came for?’ She asked. The druid steeled, chin lifted to meet her eye to eye from his diminutive height. A thick fingered hand brushed the black ribbons braided into his beard.

‘Yes, thank you.’

~/~

The door swung shut, heavy on its iron hinges. The sudden gust of wind settled in the wake of the party’s departure, with them a handful of the Naeve. Lathander sunk into her throne, an ache growing at her temple.

‘There, now that’s dealt with.’ Said Lliira with a smile.

‘Yes, it’s done.’ Intoned Eldath. But Lathander shook her head solemnly.

’No. No, it has only just begun.’

‘Bring in the patsy’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Not too bad? The ending wasn't too rushed? I was fearing nearing the 10k mark and didn't want to give anyone expectations about future chapter lengths so tied it off rather quickly. I also didn't want to bore anyone with bureaucratic nonsense at the end there, so any remaining questions *might* be answered in part 2 of this first session! Also, I don't know if it was just me reading it over too much but the first two parts of this chapter seemed a bit bland to me, but that might just be because I wrote them forever ago and spent that last forever editing it to the point of insanity. So maybe, just maybe, it's not as terribly expository as I fear it is...
> 
> Fun fact! (Because if anyone not in my party is reading this you probably have questions) : Val plays the badass takes-no-prisoners paladin who's inspired by Shiro in Voltron Legendary Defenders, particularly the Monsters and Mana episode! 
> 
> See you all next session! :)


	3. Botched Escapes and the Unresolved Mystery of Sandwiches (Session 1.2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Or 3, if you count the prologue. So... This was supposed to be the second half of session 1, but well... It's not. It's part 2 of 3 of our first session which I'm realizing now is ridiculously long. We did play for close to 6 hours I think, and apparently it takes me 10k to narrate every 2 hrs of game play... All in all, I found a half decent spot to cut and I managed to keep it below the 10k mark. Sorry this chapter wasn't up last week (Val), but I had finals run until this Monday and got no writing done over the weekend. But here is it! Edited too! Because someone (*cough* Jaeden *cough*) complained about some typos. I hope there aren't too many in this one, but let me know if you see any! Without further ado ~

The Naeve lead them through a series of gilded and twisting hallways and into the royal gardens by the southern wing. The light was still decent enough to make their way by on this side of the Queen’s Meet, rolling in from the East. The gardens themselves were a collection of large floral pieces and marble busts spread out among the the tall curving hedges of a maze. Effectively, it was impossible to get from one side of the yard to the other without going through the maze, by smarts or by force. Thankfully, the four guards decked in their bright orange tunics seemed to know the way and lead them assuredly through the labyrinth, two in front, and two flanking the group. The patchwork party must have seemed less of a threat than they really were, unarmed and piecemeal, to only require the four guards. Or, the Naeve were more than their sharp longswords and serious expressions lead on. At least, that was the conclusion Cackle came to, absentmindedly forming an escape plan if things went south, as one does. His barbarian colleague could very well take on at least two at once, even without his war-hammer, and the rest of the group must be of some use considering the Mage Queens of the Floating Isles had bestowed such a quest on them. All the facts pointed to either a poorly thought out assassination attempt, or, really, the queens did intend to truly send them out West to face the Dagroth. Neither sounded particularly appealing to the bird who thumbed the edge of a dagger the guards had missed when searching him earlier (it had been hidden in the false lining in his cloak), but the prospect of coin was too sweet to Phyllite to simply dismiss, and where he went, Cackle went, so really, there wasn’t much choice in the matter. And, revenge did come in the strangest of forms sometimes…

‘I should thank you, for earlier.’ Decided the tiefling prince aloud, his upbringing clear in the swooping curves and tilting lilts of his accent. ‘I wasn’t exactly expecting such a violent reaction to my… comment.’ He was addressing one of the guards at the front of the group, a younger fellow with a thin scar below his left eye and a chestnut ponytail of hair tied back with a length of leather. The Naeve cocked his head and a small smile made its way onto his face.

‘Don’t worry about it, about time someone said it to her face really.’ He answered. The other Naeve leading the group cast a disapproving look to the duo, but the smallest smirk on her lips seemed to have her in agreement with her colleague.

‘Still, your position doesn’t require you to protect anyone other than the Queens. To have gone toe to toe with a prince can’t be without consequences.’ Pursued Ardent, his concern stretching a bit farther than simple politeness. The guard had risked his neck for him, the tiefling owed him the decency of at least an apology for any future inconveniences. One of the guard’s eyebrows rose.

‘My job if to protect the royal family, even from each other.’ He replied, leading the group under a curving ceiling of hedges from which garlands of flowers hung, floating idly in the breeze. Ardent’s expression hardened, a tick appearing in the indigo tinged skin of his jaw.

‘You must new. Maybe haven’t heard? Disowned, forsaken, banished… Doesn’t ring any bells?’

The guard let out a chuckle, and seemed pensive for a moment before carefully laying out his next words.

‘I heard. But you’re right, I am new. I was at the Front until a few weeks ago. I trained with the provincial guard in the province of Lathander before that. I think we might have had a friend in common.’

Ardent’s expression coloured suddenly as his eyes widened in understanding, stumbling in his step from the shock. He hastily gathered himself and schooled his expression to something less obviously affected, and settling for court-appropriate feigned interest, as he had been raised to practice.

‘Ah. I see. My sincerest apologies for any inconveniences I might have caused. You have my deepest appreciation for your services…’

‘Eli’ The guard supplied with another grin. ‘No need for formalities.’

‘Eli.’ Repeated Ardent, letting the letters roll off his forked tongue with the closest thing he could muster to a genuine smile given the circumstances. This would probably be the last decent interaction he would have with a stranger in a while. The queens had been clear, they would be rewarded upon completion of the quest, but they would get no help in completing it. His name would stay tarnished until he brought them the beast’s head, Eldath would make sure of it. The Isles would remain dangerous ground, his home, his people: his enemy. There was very little the Mage Queens could do - or were willing to do - from their thrones and high dais without word getting out of the impending Western threat. The population had to stay ignorant, complacent, subservient… Ardent’s jaw locked again as his knuckles whitened from clenched fists.

‘Your weapons and packs are being kept at a guardhouse just beyond the southern gate.’ Said Eli conversationally, as if one was not discussing the finer details of a somewhat devious plot to control the masses. ‘They’re being held as confiscated goods, you’ll just have to give my name to retrieve them. There shouldn’t be any hassle, but if there is…’

_‘You will be on your own.’ Had warned Lathander, gaze fixed on the blue skinned tiefling will cool indifference. Only those who knew her well could have seen the mask she truly wore. ‘The second you walk through those gates you are no longer under the protection of the Mage Queens of the Floating Isles. You are not our champions. Our relations are inexistent, your time here, but a blip in a few guard’s memory which will surely be gone by morning. Do you understand?’_

Yes, Ardent understood alright. The second he stepped past that gates he’d have a target painted on his back the size of all the principalities combined. Hell, who wouldn’t want a go at the forsaken prince of the Isles, a supposed demonic entity, hell bent on seeing the fruits of his own labour burn for the simple sake of pissing off his mum. Really, he was still astounded that story had appeased the masses. Granted, he technically was of a demonic bloodline, one of which the physical manifestations were about to be rather impractical, so perhaps everyone was just expecting him to bare his fangs since day one. Except he hadn’t. He’d lowered his hackles, and that’s what had cost him.

His thumb brushed the smooth edge of the small cylindrical object in his pocket and his mind flew back to the last tidbit of wisdom the queens had bestowed upon them.

_‘There are some who know of our plight, who are friendly to our cause. People from beyond the Isles. They will not actively fight by our side, but they will help you in your quest if they can.’ Had said Chauntea, brushing back the copper strands from her eyes. ‘Show them this, and they will know who you serve.’ She had reached out, palm facing upwards, and in the middle, a small gold cylinder._

Ardent had taken it, cautious as to any nasty magic it might hold, but the tube was rather benign. Only an inch in length, and half that in width, it felt hollow by weight, and on one end of it, boasted a raised seven sided polygon. It was the only decoration adorning it, otherwise smooth and finished with metallic sheen. A thin seam ran along it mid-way, but there was no give when Ardent attempted to unscrew it, so it now resided in one of the less-used pockets of his slacks. Who exactly was meant to help them had not been specified. If anything, the queens didn’t truly believe anyone of them would survive. They’d seemed desperate enough to send a few men to their deaths as a last ditch attempt, and Ardent was disposable in the eyes of most of the Isles residents. Canon fodder, that’s what they were. His options were dying protecting the people who had rejected and vilified him, or die eventually once the Dagroth had overtaken the Isles. Ardent’s choice was clear. He was going to die a martyr, if only vengefully contradict those who thought him heartless.

‘Who’s that?’ Came a question from about five feet behind him, and two feet lower. Ardent snapped out of his revery and realized they’d almost made it out of the maze. A portcullis built into the arching stone work was raised at the end of the tunnel of hedges, giving onto the ebbing crowds of the street beyond. The sounds of the city were audible here. The call of merchants, the sounds of hooves, and the faintest tune played on a viol, streamed in from the road. Ardent suddenly felt rather exposed, a first considering the usual ease with which he wore his decolleter. 

‘King Telfor.’ The wizard answered. The small group had stopped at the foot of a tall sculpture tucked into an alcove of greenery. A short granite bench lied at the foot of the overlarge likeness of the elven monarch. Fine features and high arching cheekbones almost made the laurel of gold plated leaves seem secondary. The king’s robe had been sculpted masterfully, giving the impression of movement and grace to the otherwise haughty and hardened features of the elf. The view from the street, past the palace gates, gave directly onto the statue, as if a reminder to the passerbys.

‘He gave refuge to the humans during the Exodus. He hosted the Mage Queens in his palace in the Rhesda forest, and protected the humans until the Isles were hidden from the Dagroth.’ Explained Eli.

‘Hidden?’

‘You’re not from the Isles’ remarked Ardent, for the first time noticing the rather travel worn aspect of the dwarf’s cloak and clothes, the weathered look of his face and hands. He didn’t recognize the style of the man’s attire, a cross between the wizard’s apprentice robesin different shades of sea foam green and dirt caked brown, and light armour meant for rangers or outlanders. Ardent recognized it only because the guards stationed at the Western Outpost had been decked similarly. The leather was less resistant than steel, but the forest made for difficult terrain where speed and agility were greater advantages than the brute force of plate armour. The dwarf chuckled.

‘Ah, no. That I am not.’ He didn’t seem very old, at least not for his race, yet wrinkles crinkled at the corner of his dark eyes when he gave a wide smile. The planes of his features were an unusual cross between youthful and battle worn, but his eyes were centuries too old for them. ‘Not really a human now am I?’

‘The Isles don’t only host humans.’ Said the bird in the most disconcerting mixture of voices. The first few words had been almost indistinguishable from the voice of the Mage Queen of Chauntea, while the ‘host’ had been plucked right from the mouth of some boisterous female with a thick rolling accent. ‘Humans’ echoed Eli’s owns words from just moments ago.

’That’s fucking creepy. Does he always do that?’ Asked Maenox with a look of discomfort. She’d angled her question to the monolith barbarian, but Cackle answered her instead.

‘Yesss.’ He moaned in that same back alley voice he’d used in the throne room.

‘Great.’ She deadpanned. She turned back to the dwarf to answer his earlier question. ‘Powerful illusions run along the Wystir mountain range. They hide the Isles from the West, maintained by drawing on the actual life force of the mountains and forest. King Telfor helped the Queens erect them according to my History of Magic professor.’

‘What are you, like twelve? Are you missing class to go on this quest?’ Mocked the barbarian. Maenox gave him a withering glare which would have froze anyone else on the spot. Sadly, Phyllite didn’t have the necessary presence of mind to be scared of the little blond girl in her pristine apprentice robes.

‘Is he still alive?’ Asked the dwarf to defuse the tension he could feel already mounting in the party.

‘Telfor?’ Clarified Ardent. ‘I don’t know. The Exodus happened over a century ago.’

‘You’re dumber than you look, Troglodyte. The guy’s an elf. A century is like…’ Phyllite paused much longer than necessary to find a suitable comparison, ‘a month to them.’

‘What did you call me?’ Squeaked the tiefling, but the dwarf had already cut in.

‘But if he is, do you think he’s the one the queen’s were talking about? The one that would help us?’ He seemed overly eager at the prospect, desperate almost.

‘Doubtful. The Elven kingdom shut itself to the outside world the second the humans left. There’s been no contact with anyone from the Rhesda forest in a hundred years.’ Cut in Maenox. The dwarf’s expression fell at the news.

‘Worse, anyone that’s sent in is immediately shot down. We’ve lost a few envoys to the forest.’ Added Ardent with a sour expression.

‘I didn’t know that.’ Maenox frowned.

‘I’m not surprised. It’s not public information.’ Answered the fallen prince.

‘They’ll be closing the gate soon.’ Eli choose that moment to step in. True enough, dusk was brushing the eastern horizon now, and the chatter on the street beyond the portcullis had died down. A golden gleam glinted off the metal spiked framing the stone archway, casting the garden in a warm afterglow. ‘You should get out of the city before nightfall, there’s a -‘

‘Curfew.’ Finished Ardent, a weight settling in his gut. ‘Yeah, spending the night in a city where I’m actively a wanted criminal is not exactly my idea of a good time.’ He muttered. Eli smirked at his shoes.

‘I mean hey, kill the Dagroth, get your honour restored, and maybe when you get back you can show me what your idea of a good time is.’ he said, eyes suddenly fixated on a spot very far on the horizon. Ardent’s eyebrows jumped and his head swilled to the Naeve with enough force to give him whiplash. Eli had said it too low for the others in the party to hear, or they simply were decent enough people to pretend. In either case, Ardent was suddenly very aware of hot warm his cheeks were, and, for the second time that day, that his shirt collar was open down to his navel.

‘I’m not the village bicycle for your little Queen’s Guard Club.’ He said a bit harsher than he had intended and Eli laughed again.

‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.’ A stray wisp of chestnut hair was floating in the breeze at his temple and Ardent was transfixed by the way is curled around Eli’s ear. ‘I was posted at the castle in Lathander for a few years before going to the front. I heard a lot about you from him.’ And Ardent’s heart seized in his chest. ‘He wouldn’t want you going celibate to -‘

‘Well he’s not here, so he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.’ Snapped the tiefling. Something he didn’t want to identify as pity flashed in the guard’s eyes.

‘We should go.’ He said, in a much more neutral tone.

‘Finally.’ Muttered the paladin, which was the first thing the hulking man had said since they’d left the great hall. His cloaked form shoved past the two and meandered down the walkway to the awaiting gates, leaving them all behind.

‘We’re supposed to stay together.’ Reaffirmed the dwarf before hurrying after the paladin, followed closely by the wizard who cast Ardent an inscrutable look.

‘I’m so asking for more money if we have to babysit these kids the whole way to the Bad Lands.’ Announce Phyllite, fingers laced behind his head as he nonchalantly made his way down the tunnel of hedges. Cackle went as well, bumping slightly into the guard that had been heading the group with Eli until that point. He simply shouldered past her, essentially waist height, and she took a step back to regain her balance.

‘Watch it.’ She hissed after his diminutive form. He threw an apology that didn’t belong to him over his shoulder, without looking back. She readjusted her tunic and her hand fell to her belt. ’It took my dagger.’ She said once, disbelieving, then a second time, making to march after the bird, but Eli held her back.

‘He’ll need it more than you. I’ll explain to the weapons master.’ He said and she grunted an affirmative before heading back into the maze. When he didn’t follow she glanced back. ‘I’ll catch up.’ He answered, and his gaze fell to the tiefling who still hadn’t move, lost in some other place, in some other time. The evening light had ducked below the portcullis much in the same way, last time, except a different Naeve had been in his company. A heavy weight settled in Ardent’s chest, about level with his heart. He struggled to breathe past it.

‘So… If you ever make it back to Esgrove…’ Eli started, and Ardent’s head lifted, expression twisted into a lazy smirk he wore like a practiced mask. His eyes refused to shine with mirth, still swimming in pools of misery and memories.

‘I’ll make sure to look you up. What was it again?’ He teased in a tone that sounded fake to the both of them.

‘Eli’ the other answered nonetheless, a sad smile on his lips. Ardent was walking backwards towards the gate, one hand on his hip, the other tracing his bottom lip with the tip of his nail, a fake pensive expression plastered on his face.

‘Right, Eli. And you don’t mind if I think of you on any dark and stormy nights during the quest, right? You know to pass the time?’

‘Be my guest.’ He chuckled, and the tiefling disappeared past the gate just as the portcullis shut. The breeze picked up, and Eli tucked the stray strand behind his ear. ‘Safe travels, Prince Oslo.’ He whispered to the breeze.

~/~

‘Done making googley eyes to the guy with the ponytail?’ Asked Phyllite the second Ardent had walked backwards through the gate and into his line of sight. The barbarian was leaning against the thick stone wall that surrounded the citadel. The city walls extended south from the gate, specked in bastions every half mile. It eventually curved East against the horizon, meeting the northern wall where the sun rose.

‘His name is Eli.’ Answered Ardent, nonplussed.

‘Great, and now I care even less.’

‘You asked.’

‘Look Triangle, if you’re gonna survive the outskirts, you’re gonna have to lose the prince act and start respecting those who know what they’re doing.’ He’d pushed off from the wall and was standing with his arms crossed against his chest, legs just far enough apart to give the impression of casual discountenance.

‘I’m a tiefling.’

‘Whatever.’

Ardent tilted his chin and readied a sour retort, but the wizard beat him to the chase.

‘Who said we were going through the outskirts?’ She asked from a few feet away. The group had settled in the shadow of the outcropping of rocks that fortified the gate, away from the main street that ran along the citadel walls, but on the opposite side from the houses and markets. The houses were shorter here than along the eastern and northern walls, the southern district more impoverished than the other two. Still, they rose to two or three levels, casting long shadows along the street and its weaning foot traffic. Ardent quickly dove into the cover the wall provided, his shoulders hunching as he ducked his head.

‘Uhm… Because that what we do?’ supplied the barbarian, motioning to himself and Cackle. ‘We guide people through the Outskirts.’

‘That must be lucrative.’ Commented the dwarf good-naturedly.

‘More than you’d think. A lot of rich brats wanting to get places, willing to pay a lot of money.’

‘I bet.’ Muttered Ardent, words dripping with bitterness. ‘Look no one said anything about the Outskirts okay, we need to start by getting out of the city, then off the Isles. Then we can talk about heading West.’

‘Hold on, who made you head honcho.’ Phyllite waved about a hand. ‘We,’ and he motioned clearly to Cackle and himself, as if Ardent was slow on the uptake, ‘are guides. We’ve been hired, to guide you. You are following us.’ And with that, he spun on his heel and handed vaguely North-West along the tall stone fortifications.

‘Phyllite.’ Called Cackle in Phyllite’s own voice, vaguely in the tone one presents themselves in. Maenox jumped at the sound. She would never get used to that. The barbarian turned around with a what-now expression making his eyes roll.

‘Shouldn’t we get our things?’ Proposed the dwarf as amicably as he could. The barbarian’s features dropped.

‘Glenda.’

‘Who?’

‘His hammer.’ Supplied the bird with an old dusty voice.

‘Where is the guardhouse Eli mentioned?’ Asked the paladin and the whole group spun to face the tall sulking figure who’d somehow managed to melt into the stone wall while wearing a white cloak and hood. Most had forgotten he was there, others couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched.

‘A few houses from the intersection, beside the apothecary.’ Answered Maenox, pointing back towards the gate. The streets were almost empty at this point, falling into the lull after the respectable people went off, but just before the less respectable people came out.The houses and shops seemed dwarfed by the palace walls facing them, their wooden beams and glass shopfronts, fragile compared to the three feet thick and twenty feet high of stone. The breeze picked up some dust and debris from the crevices between the cobblestones, uneven here, outside the palace. In the waning rays, the street almost seemed peaceful, and not at all privy to a group of mercenaries tasked with saving the world. The paladin shifted and stood, parting the group as he stalked in the direction she had indicated without another word.

‘Yeah, thanks Maenox, you’re an indispensable member of this team and the queens definitely didn’t make a mistake charging you with the fate of the realm because hey, you know where the guardhouse is…’ She muttered to herself, falling into step behind the paladin, about as sulkily. The rest of the party slowly followed, some more reticent than others, but generally cohesive in the afterglow of sudden companionship. Or… Whatever you wanted to call what they’d been forced to entertain.

‘Wait.’ Hissed Ardent who had yet to move from the long shadow of the bastion. The party turned to look at him with varying degrees of confusion. He shuffled, poking his head around the outcropping, his horns sticking out dramatically, gold chains and jewelry adorning them, ringing with every small movement. ‘Its best,’ he tried more diplomatically, ‘if I’m not seen.’

‘Yeah, probably.’ Agreed the wizard after cocking her head to analyze the situation. Maenox was the first to understand. And the only one. ‘Wouldn’t want you to get stoned to death before we even get passed the city walls.’ Phyllite laughed at the idea. Stones were very amusing to him.

‘What, like, ever?’ Asked the barbarian after regaining a modicum of composure.

‘No. Not ever, just while we’re in the city. Or, the isles really.’ The tiefling explained.

’Then stay here.’ Ordered the paladin rather than suggested before heading off as if that solved the issue.

‘We’re not supposed to split up.’ Groaned the dwarf for the nth time.

‘We don’t really have a choice.’ Pointed out Maenox.

‘We’ll stay with him.’ Offered Cackle in a foreign accent none of them recognized, and he went to lean against the castle wall in the lengthening shadow.

‘What?’ Squawked Phyllite, turning to the treacherous bird ‘But Glenda!’

‘They’ll get Glenda’ Assured the bird in Phyllite’s own voice.

‘But I don’t want them to touch her!’ Whined the barbarian, shoulders slouching with exasperation, but apparent resignation. He spun to the trio that had been elected to retrieve their equipment, his gaze straying to the dwarf and the wizard before resting on the paladin. ‘Hey. You.’ The paladin turned, a singular eyebrow rising beneath the white cowl. ‘If there is even a scratch on her I swear to Bhaal-‘

‘To who?’ Ground out the paladin. He had frozen in his tracks, shoulders suddenly tense.

‘And Loviatar, and Talona. I will murder you with my own two hands.’ Finished the barbarian, lifting them and curling his fingers for emphasis. The paladin’s shoulders relaxed somewhat.

‘Good luck with that.’ And he as off again, dwarf and wizard in tow. The former sent a last minute glance over his shoulder.

‘We’ll be right back.’ He assured in a soft voice that didn’t match the gruff outwards appearance of his short stature. Ardent tried to give the guy a reassuring smile, and realized then he didn’t even know the man’s name. They walked back towards the gate, and then took the first right into the adjoining street, momentarily hallowed in the orange rays of dusk before disappearing around the corner. Ardent really hoped the two criminals in his company were unaware of the current bounty on his head. 

~/~

‘I can’t believe we’re trusting them with Glenda. Glenda!’ The barbarian fumed, pacing in front of the two. His arms bulged against his bare chest, and his eyes gazed with murderous intent towards the corner the other three had disappeared no more than ten minutes ago. It snapped to Cackle. ‘If anything happens to her-‘

‘Nothing is going to happen.’ Answered the bird, in the voice of a woman, tone teasing and trusting. The barbarian’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed.

‘That’s low.’ He muttered, and the bird laughed. Well, cackled really. The sound was a high pitch keening, hiccuping and strangely animalistic. The hairs on Ardent’s nape rose to attention.

‘What is that?’ He asked, not terribly wanting to know the answer, but there was only so much to keep his mind occupied and not spiralling on his impending death no matter the scenario.

‘A hyena.’ Answered the barbarian with a huff, his face still discomfit from the distance between his hammer and him. Ardent frowned.

‘A what?’ Ardent didn’t entirely want to admit to the ruffian he didn’t know the beast he spoke of, but again, his learning in biology had been extensive (not so much as the training in politics and leadership but still commendable by the standards of illiteracy still only slowly falling in most rural townships of the Isles) so there was always the off chance the man was making it up. The barbarian stopped in his pacing and gaze a confused glare to the tiefling.

‘A hyena.’ He repeated slower, enunciating clearly, trying for the posh accent the fallen prince had. Ardent rolled his eyes.

‘Yes, I heard you. What the hell is that.’

‘A beast in the outskirts. Cross a jackal with a lion and you get something close.’ Explained the bird in the dutiful tones of a well researched and well weathered gentleman. Ardent wasn’t sure what a jackal was either, but there had been many a lions painted on the tapestries in the castle in the province of Lathander. Often decapitated and slain, but he could imagine what they looked whole.

‘And they… Laugh?’ He looked to confirm uncomfortably. The horrors of the outskirts were thing of legend. Or horror stories. Or nightmares. Or all three, pick what you fancy.

‘Yesss.’ Moaned the bird, before switching back to the veteran professor, ‘At night especially, you’ll hear them over the hills, they call to each other. If you hear them answer, run. They’re circling you.’

‘Right…’ Muttered the prince, starting to wonder what exactly he’d signed up for. ‘Thank’s for the advice.’

‘Dammit Cackle, you can’t be giving out free tips or we’ll be out of a job.’ Admonished the barbarian, but his frown was directed to the intersection where the others had yet to reappear. He took a few steps in the direction, craning his neck for a better view, ‘We should - Hey! Watch it!’

There was a thunk and a yelp, and a woman had fallen backwards after walking straight into the seven feet of stone-like muscle. Her bag ripped open after making contact with the cobblestone street, and a dozen oranges fell from its innards and rolled in random directions. In the setting sun they glowed like jewels amidst the dust, and the trio realized for the first time that they hadn’t eaten in recent memory, stomachs growling in collective outcry as the sight.

‘Be careful! Geez…’ Ardent berated the brute, slinking out of the shadows without a second though to kneel by the woman. Offering a hand, he couldn’t help the twinkle in his eye and the smirk quirking his lip over his fang. Eli’s words still bounced around in his head, but this made them so much easier to forget. ‘Terribly sorry about my friend, he’s blind to beautiful things.’ And she was rather pretty, dark hair and eyes rimmed in long black eyelashes that fluttered as she regained composure.

‘Oh it’s my fault, I wasn’t…’ She had been dusting off her skirts, pushing hair out of her face, taking his hand without noticing, until her gaze finally lifted to the slit pupils and curling horns standing over her. Her mouth formed a pretty little O, and then she screamed.

The shrill noise echoed through the mostly barren street, bringing to a halt all other passerbies in the near vicinity. A couple with a child up the street stopped, then turned down the first street they could find, the woman shielding the eyes of the youngest. A merchant with a cart brought his horse to a slow trot as he neared the scene. The two armed guards standing by the southern gate stood to attention, helms angled in their direction. Ardent couldn’t quite feel his legs anymore.

‘Hey! What’s going on over here?’ spoke up a man standing in the doorway of a blacksmiths a few doors down from the small group. Ardent’s head dropped and he hissed out a swear in infernal, coming to realize the extent of his actions. He plastered on a grin and turned around, both hands lifted in apparent surrender.

‘Ha-ha, nothing to worry about my good sir-‘ He didn’t have time to finish his sentence that the young fellow was already wipping the coal dust from his knuckles and making his way across the street. The merchant had come to a complete stop now, and the guards were walking in their direction, the sun glinting off their polished armour. Ardent felt his heart reach an astounding number of beats per minute, etching a tattoo into his ribcage. The closest threat was the blacksmith, and Ardent started hoping that he would kill him first and swiftly, so he would not need to feel the wrath of all the other approaching. His thick fingered hands weren’t wielding a weapon, but the angle of his jaw was sharp enough to give Ardent pause. The barbarian? Not so much. The blacksmith wasn’t a few feet from the still prone woman and Ardent that Phyllite stepped between them and threw a clean right hook. I sailed through the air like in slow motion, all eyes magnetically drawn to its trajectory. It made contact with a crack, and the rock-like quality of the barbarian’s fist was not lost on the blacksmith, who’s jaw would forever be ever so slightly less sharp, and his mouth missing ever so slightly more teeth for it. The man dropped like a sack of stones, out cold.

‘Holy shit.’ Whispered Ardent.

‘AAAAAH.’ Screamed the woman.

‘See, you don’t even need Glenda.’ Pointed out the bird who was casually leaning against the castle wall, an orange between his taloned fingers.

The subsequent events happened very quickly. The woman scuttled backwards on her hands as fast as she could, tearing the hem of her skirt up to her knee, eyes frozen in terror. Ardent stood still arms raised as if to excuse his very existence, eyes darting in every direction in hope for an escape, or the least painful death. Phyllite shook out his hand before balling it again, raised to face his second challenger, a stoky fallow who’d been walking with his very pregnant wife, now rolling his sleeves above his elbows, bushy eyebrows meeting at the centre of his forehead. Phyllite reeled back a second punch, and Ardent did the only thing he could think of, and threw himself at the barbarian, hanging off his arm in an attempt to physically dissuade him from murdering a civilian.

‘Phyllite, no!’ He yelled, the first of many more, more than he could fathom.

‘Phyllite, yes.’ Egged on Cackle, a safe distance from the current encounter. The clatter of metal armour brought all three of their gazes to the two guards making their way past the small crowd that had started to gather to watch the display of violence in an otherwise peaceful city. Bar the two guards and the stocky fellow, a few others were stepping forwards, men with wide shoulders and lengths of metals and tools, women with fiery eyes wielding heavy bags and, one, a pitchfork. A flurry of discontent passed over the crowd, whispers of fallen princes and blue-skinned devils passed from mouth to mouth, sharpening their intent to the skillfully pointed blade of a city scorned. Ardent took a calculated step back. Phyllite cracked his knuckles and a smirk.

Cackle continued casually peeling the orange he’d dusted off. This was going to be about as bad as he had anticipated, maybe worse, give or take a couple heads.

~/~

The guard house was a short single level building on the corner of a small plaza. The southern gate was mostly unused, the eastern gate making up the official entrance, surrounded by the rich villas of the nobles, and the northern gate giving directly onto the main the mercantile road of the Isles, that whole district occupied mostly by merchants and guilds. The road leading to this gate was therefore rather narrow and paved only for the aesthetic. Said square was nothing more than a slightly wider intersection than absolutely necessary, with a raised wooden structure in the middle, meant for a town crier. The few businesses on plaza were already closed for the day, a handful of workers lingered, closing shutters and sweeping steps. A single table was still set up in the far corner, nothing more than a sheet spread out over a few upturned crates. A kid sat there, selling a variety of random wares too far to be discernible.

Maenox hadn’t come this way the morning her apprenticeship had been meant to start. She’d taken the main entrance, past its gilded gates and down the garden-like courtyard that lead to the front steps of the outer buildings. She only knew the way because she had arrived in Esgrove a few weeks early to acclimate herself to the city she was meant to take her apprenticeship in. The apothecary here was the only one in walking distance of the palace that sold moonshine distilled from corn from the Outer Lands - purely for medicinal purposes, of course. Granted, the moonshine was not exactly sold over the counter… but Maenox had her ways of convincing most shop owners that her intentions were pure. That, or they were located in the part of town where people didn’t ask questions, which was the case of this particular one. The southern district turned more slum than city the farther you got from the centre.

The apothecary itself was closed for the day, though Maenox was already aware that there was a side entrance down the alley that ran between the shop and the guardhouse that would open if you knocked and mentioned something about prescriptions. Its sign was a deep forest green, painted with the triangle and drop of blood, symbolic of the trade, and hung crooked across the top of the door. The shutters had been closed on the first floor, but light flickered in the second floor windows where the old croone that served as doctor lived. Beside it, the smaller and cleaner guardhouse looked out of place. Quaint with its white walls and solid oak door, its slanting roof leaned on the apothecary and angled down towards the road where a sign post was planted inscribed with the purpose of the establishment. A single window facing the plaza was shuttered.

‘Think they’re closed?’ Asked the dwarf. The paladin strode up to the door and tried the handle.

‘It’s locked?’ asked the wizard, not seeing it open, though the entrance was obscured by the girth of the guy’s shoulders. The plate armour he wore really wasn’t doing anything to lessen the imposing aura of his build. The barbarian was just as huge, if not more, considering he didn’t even bother to wear a shirt, but there was something about the gleam of metal under that white cloak and hood that let the mind wander and wonder about the power hidden beneath. The paladin didn’t bother answering, and started pounding on the door with the flat of his fist. The wizard crossed her arms.

‘Does he think that’s gonna work?’ She asked. The dwarf looped his thumbs through his belt and rocked on his heels.

‘If anyone’s in there maybe they’ll get annoyed to the point of answering?’ He postulated.

‘By the knocking? I wouldn’t open the door just to spite him.’ Scoffed Maenox.

‘Maybe the guard on duty is really nice and understanding.’

‘Even then, that also requires someone to actually be there.’

‘It does look closed.’

‘We’re just wasting time.’ She muttered, drumming her fingers against her arm. They stood and observed the hulking paladin slamming his fist on the oak for a few more moments.

‘Maybe it’s therapeutic for him, maybe he’s getting some anger out on the door.’ Analyzed the dwarf.

‘He did break that guy’s wrist earlier.’ She noted.

‘Right? That was insane! Who does that?’ Exclaimed the shorter, turning to face the wizard, eyes wide with disbelief.

‘Someone with enough emotional baggage to knock a door to death?’ She pointed out, and she was pretty sure she was starting to see a dent where the guy’s fist had been hitting repeatedly.

‘Rather that door than me.’

‘You said it.’

‘Well, I mean, if ever he felt the need to talk it out, I’m a great listener.’ Amended the dwarf. Maenox turned her speculative gaze to him, one eyebrow arched. The dwarf ran a hand through the tresses in his beard and struggled to find his cool. ‘You know, like over a bottle of something? With alcohol. And inhibition.’

‘Right.’

‘Yeah.’ Cool definitely restored.

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Gramdan.’ He finally presented himself. She nodded and a second elapsed before she felt the need to keep the conversation going. A breeze blew through the plaza, the kid tried hailing a passerby to his table, the crooked sign for the apothecary knocked against the door frame in the wind, making a hollow sound.

’No last name?’ Asked the wizard. Gramdan shook his head.

‘No, we dont…’ He hesitated, ‘No, no last name. You?’

’None that I call my own.’

‘Cool.’ So not cool. Her answer was so much better than his. He really had to work on his mysterious demeanour.

‘Yeah.’

They watched the paladin’s knocking turn significantly more violent.

‘Should we… stop him?’

‘Give it a few more seconds.’ They did. The paladin straight out punched the door. ’Okay now we should stop him - Hey! HEY! STOP!’ The wizard and the dwarf rushed forward, the former tugging on the paladin’s outstretched arm, the later placing himself, rather bravely, between the offender and the door. Maenox’s fingers curled into the dark fabric of the glove that covered the man’s left arm beneath his bracer and gauntlet. The white haired man wrenched his arm away, taking a quick step back from the two, his breathe suddenly ragged.

‘What did the door do to you, damn.’ Muttered the wizard.

‘Breaking down the door to a guardhouse might not be the best idea.’ Supplied Gramdan, glancing quickly at the few occupants of the plaza who were throwing them questioning looks.

‘Yeah, there are easier ways of getting into places.’ Followed up the wizard, frost already forming on her fingertips. She turned to the door, and with a quick look over her shoulder to the plaza to make sure she obscured her own actions, set her chilled palm against the keyhole. She winked at the paladin and chanted softly, just loud enough for the other two to hear the sweeping vowels of the strange tongue. Ice infiltrated the mechanism and the metal groaned and cracked. The wizard ended her chant, and taking a step back, gave the door a swift kick with the heel of her boot near the lock. A loud snap sounded and the door sung open. 

‘After you.’ She smiled, satisfied, brushing off the snow from her hands.

‘Damn.’ Whispered Gramdan, and even the paladin looked somewhat impressed. Maybe she would be useful to this quest after all.

‘Halt! What is the meaning of this?’ Cried out a guard from the other end of the plaza. All three looked back and saw the purple-clad guard, symbol of his fealty to the province of Chauntea, racing towards them, a cloth-wrapped something in one hand, the other on the pommel of the sword at his hip.

‘Fuck.’ Said Gramdan, somewhat louder. The paladin curled a fist, his gauntlet clinking, but Maenox grabbed his arm and held it at his side.

‘Just play it cool.’ She hissed, and plastered on a smile so wide it could be seen from across the square. The guard’s run slowed to a jog and he came to a stop before the trio. He was of the older end of the retinue, hair greying at his temples and peppering his beard. His expression was sour, accentuated by the ragtag look of his tunic which was starting to unravel at the bottom. A large yellow patch stained the part of his uniform where any ribbons and medals would have hung. He had no helm and was missing his gauntlets, instead sporting a worn pair of leather gloves.

‘Hi!’ started Maenox brightly, ‘Are you in charge of this guardhouse?’

‘I am.’ Answered the man suspiciously. Maenox gave his appearance another once over and tried not to let her despair for the provincial guard’s quality of man show on her face.

‘Right. Well, I’m Maenox, and this is Gramdan,’ she motioned to the dwarf who held out a friendly hand. The guard made no move to shake it so he just lowered it slowly. ‘And this is… Eh.’ Maenox faltered when motioning to the paladin. The guy was glaring at the scene before him, clearly more onboard with his plan to pummel his way out of the situation than to deceive. ‘This, this is…’ Pursued the wizard, clearly urging him with a glare.

‘Shiro.’ Relented the paladin, and Maenox’s shoulders relaxed.

‘Shiro!’ She repeated merrily. ‘We’re here to retrieve some items that should be held under the name Eli? A few bags, some weapons.’

The disgruntled guard gave them a cursory glance, and moved to the door of the guardhouse, stopping when he saw it standing open. Maenox gave a quick laugh, slightly too high pitched to be real.

‘Ha-ha The door was unlocked when we tried it! How funny is that.’ She swallowed, her mouth suddenly very dry. The guard pined his irritated gaze on her, telling her off at the forefront of his mind.

‘And a bit, huh… Unprofessional, wouldn’t you say?’ Interjected Grandam, hands filling with one of the black ribbons braided into his voluminous beard. ‘Leaving a guardhouse unlocked? Someone could have stolen something…’

’Yes!’ picked up Maenox, ‘And if some of our stuff is gone, well, we’d have to talk to your boss, or… or manager!’

‘Yeah, I had a very valuable… Huh, flask! In my bag, a gift from my great-uncle, very important to me. I can’t imagine what I would do if it isn’t there…’ Added the dwarf, frowning deeply.

‘Oh wow, yeah, that reminds me, I have some books from the Queen’s Meet library, I hear they send the Naeve out to hunt down anyone who doesn’t return them, very valuable scrolls you know?’

‘I can only imagine.’

‘Invaluable really.’

‘Must be, yeah.’

‘Aye, shut up!’ Cut in the guard with a wave of his hand. He grunted and swore under his breath, walking into the darkened guardhouse if only to get away from them. Maenox smiled brightly at Gramdan who flushed bright pink, and Shiro shouldered past them into the small house. They followed behind, Maenox holding the door closed gingerly when the lock wouldn’t set. She casually kicked the broken end of the bolt under a low table near the entrance.

The guard shuffled about the room, setting down his bundle on the end of a long counter, and lit a few candles to illuminate the room. Faint evening light streamed in through the crooked slats of the shutters, adding to the orange hue. The guard found a scrap bit of paper amidst the mounds of parchment on the desk and poised a brush above it, having flipped open an ink jar and splattered black drops on his hand already.

‘What was the name again?’ He asked gruffly.

‘Eli.’ Supplied Maenox, placed her elbows on the long counter to watch him work. Shiro stood next to the door, arms crossed, hood brought low enough to hide his eyes, and Gramdan was wandering aimlessly, picking up and examining any stray trinket that crossed his path. A pamphlet, some wanted notices.

‘How do you spell that?’ Grunted the guard.

‘Uh,’ Maenox looked to the others for help, but the paladin didn’t meet her eye and Gramdan only shrugged. ‘E-L-L-Y?’ She offered, and the guard moved past his desk and through a door leading to a backroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Maenox slid along the counter to the cloth-wrapped object the guard had left there. Keeping an eye on the door, she carefully unwrapped it.

‘What are you doing?’ Hissed Gramdan in low tones, and Maenox shushed him with a pointed glare.

‘I’m just curious!’

‘You can’t just touch other people’s stuff!’ He groaned, but Maenox just lifted her shoulders and continued to carefully untuck the corners of the cloth.

‘He’s going to notice.’

‘I’ll put it right back.’

‘We’re already in enough-‘

‘Don’t worry I-‘

The door opened and the guard shuffled back in. Instinctively, Maenox did the only rational thing a person does when caught red handed, and swiped the package off the counter before he noticed. It clattered to the ground beside her feet and Gramdan coughed ridiculously loudly to cover the sound. The guard gave them both an odd look.

‘So, eh… Found anything?’ Asked Gramdan conversationally, thumping his chest as if getting rid of the last of his wheeze. Maenox’s lips stretched into a Cheshire cat grin. The guard thought he was used to the stuff that got dragged into the guardhouse in the southern district, but this was proving him to be greatly mistaken.

‘Your stuff’s not here.’ He answered, shuffling back to his desk where he sat down heavily. Maenox’s smile dropped, and Gramdan shook his head as if his hearing was amiss.

‘What?’ Shiro voiced all their thoughts, added to that the low, intimidating growl of his tone. The guard didn’t notice the threat there, and instead took his time propping up his heels on the edge of his desk, sending a few documents to the floor.

‘Eli, the stuff that was being kept under that name? The hold expired a couple hours ago.’ He explained, as though he found the whole thing rather tiresome.

‘Wha- What does that mean?’ Stuttered Gramdan, his expression crestfallen. The guard sighed loudly, his cold gaze snapping to the two annoyances leaning on his counter.

‘It means your stuff’s not here! So get out before I kick you out.’ He grunted, pulling out a short dull dagger form his belt for emphasis. Maenox was about to ask again when a white blur vaulted the counter next to her shoulder creating enough of a breeze for the hood of her cloak to flutter against her back, and her hair to tickle her cheek. Next thing the guard knew, an angry paladin was leaning over him, fury in both eyes enough to quell any retort he might have. Shiro had knocked the from feet of the chair back and held the guard suspended mid fall by the front of his uniform, balled into one curled fist. His hood was just far back enough for the guard to get well acquainted with the breadth of the scar marring the bridge of his nose. The dagger lay a few feet away, having clattered out of his grip.

‘Where is it.’ He seethed, doing his best to enunciate each word as clearly as he could his his teeth clenched. The guard fumbled for a second before finding a hand hold on the arm currently keeping him from falling backwards. His fingers dug into the edges of Shiro’s bracers, pulling taunt the black material of the glove, and the paladin gave an involuntary hiss.

‘I- I don’t know! I swear!’ Appealed the guard. He’d been intimidated plenty of time. Hell, he’d been beaten, cut, bruised, and worse by the thugs and rebels of the southern district. A little bout of yelling and uniform-wrinkling was nothing that would usually put him off, but there was something about the grip of this man that made his chest squeeze, something in his gaze that reminded him of the desperation he’d only seen in the eyes of soldiers at the Front. It was the kind of thing that fed his nightmares.

‘You said the hold expired.’ Repeated Maenox. She’d approached the situation cautiously, picking up the dagger the man had dropped to hold it in her own version of intimidation. The guard much preferred her brand, fine features schooled into haughty expectation, the dagger grasped in disdainful fingers, she looked rather cute. The paladin gave him a shake and the guard felt the words fall from his lips.

‘We keep confiscated goods for up to a week after they’ve been cleared.’ He explained falteringly.

‘And if no one claims them?’ Prompted Gramdan from behind the counter where he surveyed the scene with a displeased look. It didn’t exactly have the effect he hopped, seeing only his head cleared the top. The paladin gave the guard another shake.

‘It- It depends. The clothes are given away, weapons are kept and melted, some stuff is sold.’

‘My books…’ whimpered Maenox.

‘But-‘ and he cut himself off. Shiro growled and fisted his second hand around the scruff of the guard’s uniform.

‘But?’ pushed the wizard, levelling the useless dagger with his throat.

‘There’s this kid!’ He said, but non of them looked impressed. ‘He- He comes and buys the stuff off of us, keeps us from having to go down to the charity drive after our shifts and makes us a couple silver.’ Gramdan scoffed and Maenox rolled her eyes.

‘What does he do with it, this kid?’ She asked.

‘He- he sells it in the square! I saw him earlier, he’s still there.’ The guard sputtered. Shiro dropped him and the chair swung back on its hind legs. The guard gave a shrill squeak and smacked against the ground, but the paladin was already at the door. Maenox dropped the dagger and rushed after him.

‘Sorry!’ Called Gramdan over his shoulder, following the other two out.

The guard dusted himself off and let out a series of profanities, tucking the dagger back into his belt. He sidestepped the counter and closed the door going to lock it only to find the mechanism in pieces.

‘You know what? I don’t even care.’ He muttered to himself, stalking back to the counter where he’d left his package earlier. ‘Hey, where’s my sandwich?’

~/~

The blonde wizard, white-hooded paladin, and diminutive druid, all rushed back into the square where the evening darkness had started to settle in fully. A few torches were lit along the square and, sure enough, in the far corner was the same kid from earlier, packing the contents of his table away and folding up the sheet that covered the crates. He looked rather young from a distance, thin shoulders and moth-eaten tunic hanging off his frame. Gramdan had half a mind to let the kid keep the contents of his money pouch, but Shiro stalked across the plaza with only one goal in mind, and it didn’t seem to be the same as his. The other two trailed behind him both in the hopes of retrieving their belonging, and perhaps avoiding the murder of a child. Shiro sidled up to the table and slammed a hand down on the tattered stretch of the cloth the kid had been folding. He caught sight of a couple packs tucked behind the table.

‘Can I help ya?’ Asked the kid, craning his neck to match the gaze of the towering paladin. Even though his squalid appearance, the boy squared his shoulders and gripped something Shiro could only imagine was sharp, under the cover of the table. The paladin took a breath, and his companions noticed his stance change as they arrived to the table. His shoulders lowered, and he pushed his hood a bit farther on his head so more of his face was visible. Maenox swore he flexed his knees a bit to seem shorter.

‘Look,’ he started and Gramdan couldn’t believe the six-something feet of muscles and armour could sound semi-non-threatening. ‘I think you have some of my- our stuff.’ The kid’s owlish eyes blinked, but his expression shifted from feigned incomprehension to steeled determination.

‘If ya talking ‘bout the stuff from the steelhouse, I bough that fair n’ square alright?’ He said, puffing his chest under the thin fabric of his shirt. Gramdan was definitely giving the kid everything he owned the second he had it back. Shiro’s hand fisted the cloth, but the kid jerked back, taking a defensive stance, and the paladin forced himself to release the fabric. Instead his face split into a smile that looked painful to form.

‘It wasn’t theirs to give away.’ He breathed through the tick in his jaw and Maenox wondered if he would faint from the strain of keeping his composure. The kid scrunched his nose and did his best to look down on them, which only worked on Gramdan who was about his height.

‘If it ain’t claimed, then I’m allowed to buy it, ‘em the rules.’ He defended himself, and Gramdan wondered if the kid would take his heart and soul if he offered.

‘Look kid-‘ snarled Shiro, leaning over the table from all of his height, but Maenox shot out an arm to hold him back.

‘How about we buy it? Huh? You’re selling this stuff right?’ She interjected with a strained smile. The kid gave her a suspicious once-over.

‘Won’t be cheap, not if ya want all o’ it.’ He crossed his arms with a sniff.

‘That’s okay we have…’ Maenox reached in her robes and realized with a pang her gold had been in her bag, the very bag that was now in the possession of a kid who was surprisingly skilled at bartering.

‘Uh, Maenox? My money was in my bag.’ Stage-whispered Gramdan, pointing unsubtly to the rucksack sticking out from behind the crate. Maenox looked to the heavens and asked what she had done to deserve this, instead of a few years tucked away amid the stacks of scrolls and books in the Queens Meet library. ‘Maybe the others have-‘

And as if on cue, Phyllite and Ardent skidded past the intersection and ran full speed into the square as if the Dagroth was on their heels. Cackle followed at an almost leisurely pace, finishing off the remnants of his orange. Phyllite vaulted the sodden platform and practically barrelled into the crates before coming to a stop, his breath tearing out of him. His fingers curled around the front of Shiro’s cloak.

‘Glenda!’ He panted, eyes wild.

Ardent skirted the bench and slowed only enough to come to a stop in from of Maenox and Gramdan.

‘We need to go. NOW. Do you have our stuff?’ Sweat trickled down his hairline, his dark curls wild from his madcap run. His cheeks were pinked from the exertion, but something like a smile was curling the corners of his lips. There was something exhilarating about finally being able to flip off the strains of proper court appearances.

‘Ugh, well see, there was a bit of a problem.’ Explained Gramdan. Phyllite released Shiro only to turn to the dwarf.

‘A problem? Where’s GLENDA?’ He roared, but before any of the three could answer in, a mob flooded the plaza like a tsunami. Somewhere along the way, the guard’s numbers had doubled, and the houses had emptied out along the streets, growing the crowd to a full parade of angry civilians and armoured knights. Ardent gulped and Maenox couldn’t help a bit of a laugh.

‘Looks like we weren’t the only ones with problems.’

‘Is that a pitchfork?’

‘Where’s our stuff?’ That was Cackle, who’d finally reached the party, like the calm before the storm brewing on his heels.

‘The kid-‘ Started Gramdan, but as he turned back to face the table, he found it empty. ‘Where did-‘

‘There!’ Pointed Maenox. The kid had grabbed as many bags as he could shoulder and sprinted down the first alley off the plaza while they were arguing. He skirted the corner and disappeared between two buildings, surprisingly fast for his gaunt frame. Phyllite was already on his heels.

‘After him!’ Called Ardent, rallying his missmatched party to the cause. Behind them, the mob swelled and the cry of a guard rung out among the masses.

‘AFTER THEM!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh? Eh?? Not half bad? Good cliffhanger ending there? I thought so. I had a bit of trouble getting into the flow of the first half of the chapter, but I really like the second overall. I'm slowly getting into the groove of writing the dialogue for six different characters that aren't my own. Hopefully I do them justice! The third part of this session might be a bit shorter than the first two. There's not too much left to our first session, but it was too much to tack on at the end of this one. Should be up pretty soon. I'm out of school and I don't start my summer just for a bit (+ we don't have DnD this friday and it's not like I do anything else with my time) so I should be able to write it up pretty quickly! Anyway,
> 
> Fun fact! (Because if anyone not in my party is reading this you probably have questions) : Jaeden plays the all-nonsense barbarian Phyllite, which is rather funny because the character is the polar opposite of his actual personality :)
> 
> See y'all next session ~


	4. Tonight: Mob Madness, Followed by Beheading Beginnings  (Session 1.3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm... So I lied about this next chapter being up in no time at all. Oops. Somewhere between my summer jobs, all the little backstory fics, and university starting back up, I just never got to finishing the last few thousand words to top this chapter off. I was about to get it done back in October, but ended up taking part in NaNoWriMo with another project (and winning!), so only just got to finish this up now, during my fall exam session, of course. Please ignore the major change in style around the 7k mark, that's what six months of writing does to a person. Still trying to find my voice and all. Enjoy the FINAL instalment of session 1!

‘AFTER THEM!’

And they were. Like wind, the barbarian, the bastard and the bantam flew down the back alley, taking the corner at an astonishing pace, and racing through the narrow passage after the fugitive child with their stolen belongings. Phyllite was in the lead, legs pumping against the cobblestone with astounding speed, his thighs rippling with muscle under the leather folds of his skirt. Bare-chested, he was rather aerodynamic, flowing black hair streaming behind him as he chased the kid at breakneck speed, yelling something that might have been ‘GLENDA’ which echoed strangely on the tall walls surrounding them. Ardent was next, doing his best to keep pace with his newfound stamina. Wonders what a few months alone in the mountains could do for one’s survival skills, especially considering that his royal upbringing hadn’t exactly included foraging and endurance in its curriculum. Gramdan… Well, Gramdan was bringing up the rear, at quite a distance, but the rear nonetheless.

‘Curse these short legs!’ He panted, doing his best to keep up, but losing ground steadily as the gap between him and the others widened with each passing second.

Shiro and Maenox weren’t far behind, taking a few seconds to grab up the remaining bags from behind the crates before taking pursuit of the young thief. The paladin rushed down the alley with his head ducked, eagle eyes piercing through the darkness cast by his hood, taking in every fluke piece of rubble, the distance between the tail of the chase (Gramdan) and he, and the relative weight of the bag which clearly was not his by the size of it. Maenox was hot on his heels, but hesitated, looking over her shoulder at Cackle who was still only following at his leisurely pace, as if this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience to him. The wizard decided she really didn’t have time to question her unusual new ally considering the circumstances and darted down the alley after the white blur of a cloaked paladin.

Not two blocks south of the palace walls did the city turn to shanty. The quaint two-story buildings quickly turned to dilapidated houses and boarded up store fronts. The sole remnants of an old mining city, the ruins on which Esgrove was built, were a veritable maze, especially in the low light of the evening. The setting sun cast deep shadows across the stout stone buildings, leaving the narrow alleyways darkened and fruitful to someone looking to disappear. Not to mention, the kid knew them like only a native of the crisscrossing streets and back ways would. When you’re born to the dust and grime, you knew every nook and cranny. His quick bare feet kicked up clouds of dust that glinted in the setting rays like specks of gold, floating between the ruins of a fire-eaten temple and the remnants of a once apothecary. The boy took a sharp left, then a quick right, crossing a main street lightning fast before sprinting down between two buildings in a space barely big enough to clear his shoulders.

Phyllite barreled after him, not stopping to help up the man he shoved out of his way, ignoring the angry bellows of the merchant whose stall he practically tore down when he slammed into the table, taking the turn a bit too quick for his sandals to grip the dust. He caught his step and pumped his legs faster, a single thought at the forefront of his mind: Glenda. Crystal blue eyes were trained on the pack bouncing on the emaciated shoulders of the twerp who dared steal his stuff. Surprisingly quick for his sheer size, Phyllite vaulted his bulk of muscle over the barrel the kid had managed to pull down behind him, trying to throw them off his trail. A sharp cry of surprise and the sound of a body colliding with the obstacle he’d just cleared, rang out behind Phyllite, but he didn’t spare his new companions a glance, keeping his gaze locked on his target, much to the displeasure of the kid. The barbarian had to give it to him, the furtive glances the boy had thrown over his shoulder weren’t fearful or panicked, more steely determination and annoyance than anything else.

The thief ducked low and swerved towards a boarded-up shop. There were barely a few inches of space between the ground and the first plank obstructing the doorway. He had to ditch one pack to get under without losing his lead. One swing and the bag went flying into a bale of hay beside the next alley entrance. The boy bowled the first bag in before him and slid with practiced ease in the dust and dirt, pulling the second bag in under the plank after him, right from between the extended fingers of the barbarian.

‘That weasel!’ Phyllite raged, swinging a fist to the boards obstructing his chase. The alley itself could barely fit the girth of his shoulders, there was no way he was fitting in the cracks between the floor and wood. One wild punch, and another, but the planks were strangely resilient and refused to bow to his attacks. A soft childish laugh bubbled up from behind the door, cocky, content, and footsteps becoming distant. Phyllite let out an animalistic growl and dug his fingers to the second joint between two of the planks, pulling with all of his might.

A bird cry far above his head stilled his movements, a shadow dancing over his face and shoulders. The barbarian looked up and found a large eagle circling overhead. Its beak glistened for a second in the light of dusk, and it dove straight for him. With a squawk of surprise, Phyllite’s hands flew up to cover his head, but instead of the expected arial attack, the bird morphed into a familiar short dwarf, settling with barely a cloud of dust not two feet from him. Phyllite blinked at the panting druid, not quite believing his eyes. Faltering steps behind him alerted the barbarian to the renewed presence of the tiefling as well.

‘You know,’ said the fallen prince, ‘the barrel really wasn’t necessary.’

‘Your face isn’t necessary.’ Snapped back Phyllite. He turned back to the door, fisting a nail and giving it a jerk unsuccessfully.

‘Rude.’

‘The kid went east, the alley meets back up with the main road in a bit, we can cut him off there.’ Interrupted Gramdan. Phyllite turned to the shorter of the annoyances, appraising.

‘You can turn into a bird.’ More disbelief than question.

‘Amongst other things.’

‘You should turn into a bird and hang out with Cackle.’ Deadpanned the barbarian.

‘You think he’d like that?’ The druid’s face lit up. An award silence stretched out where Ardent tried to place the strange expression twisting the barbarian’s broad features.

‘There’s a bag in that cart.’ And Phyllite was off into the fading light.

~/~

‘So…’ Started the guard, eyeing the bird sucking the orange juice from its feathers, ‘You with the other hooligans?’

The bird trained his glowing red eyes onto the already frowning features of the man.

‘Sir, do I look like a hooligan to you?’ He answered succinctly, in a voice belonging better to a school-aged girl in need of an attitude adjustment. The man blinked and regretted many of the life decisions having led up to this moment.

~/~

Phyllite skidded around the next corner, falling to a knee before sprinting off with complete disregard for his surroundings. He slammed into a random passer-by at the mouth of the alley and ignored Ardent apologizing behind him. A shadow flickered over him and Phyllite glanced up to see the same eagle circling above. Maybe the dwarf would be useful after all. The alley did indeed give onto a larger street, decked in multicoloured food stalls. The enticing smell of roasted vegetables filled the whole area, but the barbarian had more pressing things to think about than the pit of hunger in his stomach. Somewhat dilapidated, the small market space was surprisingly busy for the time of day, though maybe that had more to do with the type of wares being sold than anything else. A few scantily clad people lazed around a shop front, incense burning in the low light. The stores were mostly fabric walls and makeshift tables, throwing a kaleidoscope of colour onto the barbarian’s retinas as he tried to scan the small crowd for the telltale signs of thievery and youthful disobedience.

There! A flicker of the boy’s oversized tunic, and a sliver of a devilish grin, between two bright orange panels pulled taunt between low buildings. Phyllite took off, gladiator sandals gripping the dusty cobblestone from pure spite at this point. Screams and yelps erupted in his wake, but did not slow him. He vaulted a spice display that might also have contained some rather illegal substances, and pushed off the neighbouring wall before shooting down yet another alley. If Esgrove was lacking anything, alleyways and a wealth gap were not it.

They had to be crossing into more residential areas, because the alleys became gardens and yards, remnants of spaces between buildings people had grown into. Cluttered with junk from spare furniture to tools and lumber, chasing the boy became more of an obstacle race than a sprint. Phyllite was jumping through hoops to keep up with the nimble twerp who could still manage to avoid overturned tables and hop over herb gardens with two bags strapped to his back. Still, the chase was clearly starting to weigh on him, and Phyllite was finally starting to gain ground as they passed shocked residents looking out from their back windows. His pace faltering, the boy started looking around for a quick exit, knowing his dexterity far surpassed that of the hulking mass of muscle, and he had the home turf advantage. If he could not outlast, he would out hide.

A sharp left should have lost the barbarian, but the boy’s bare foot slipped, and the second cost him, Phyllite’s hand closing like a vice around the strap of one of the bags. A rumble of glee started in the barbarian’s chest as he jerked the kid right off the ground where he had fallen to his knees in the sand and dust. The moment was short-lived, however, when a handful of sand arced from the boy’s hand and smeared across the barbarian’s eyes. He dropped the boy on instinct, hands suddenly preoccupied with the stinging and grating agent of pain on his eyeballs.

The thief scrambled back to his feet and darted down the sliver of space between the two buildings. A sharp cry from above forced his gaze upwards to the swooping eagle going straight for him. He backtracked with a yelp, spinning on his heel as Gramdan materialized in the alley where the bird had been.

‘We only want the bag.’ Tried to appease the dwarf.

‘Screw you.’ Spat the kid, sprinting back to where Phyllite was wiping the tears from his chin.

‘Where the hell are your parents!’ Ground out the druid, following close behind.

The boy emerged from between the buildings just as Phyllite recovered, his cerulean eyes now bloodshot, lending to the whole bloodthirsty barbarian look. Their gazes crashed, and even though just dropping the bags and jumping through the nearest open window would have been the smartest decision at that point, the kid was going to keep this up just to peeve Phyllite off. The barbarian lunged for him, arms outstretched, right as Gramdan jumped from between the buildings. The kid took one carefully calculated step back and watched the two collide midair. The resulting crash was spectacular and drew the attention of anyone within earshot. Heads poked out of windows, concerned residents turned the corner into the back way, their eyes all going from the crumpled heap of two adult travellers, to the lanky kid smiling like the cat who got the canary.

‘Enough!’ Yelled Ardent, who had just burst into the scene, aristocratic features pulled down into a scowl too pedantic for his attributes. A swish of a long black wand, the chiming of the gold chains swinging between his horns, and the low guttural sounds of infernal filtered over the area. The magic was heavy as it oozed from Ardent, coming off in rivulets from his form and seeping into the air like noxious fumes. The kid was the first to drop. He collapsed with little fanfare and didn’t get up. The gasps of the onlookers were short-lived as they soon followed suit. Within moments, the entirety of the block was out like a light, Ardent having blown out the flame and cut the wick. All but Phyllite and Gramdan.

‘What the hell did you do?’ Whispered the druid, astonished, horrified, as he collected himself and stared at the bodies littering the ground around him. He untangled himself from the barbarian with halting movements, eyes glued to the limp forms.

‘Oh, they’re just asleep, don’t worry.’ Soothed the warlock, casually stashing his wand back into his knee-high leather boot. ‘Though we should hurry, it won’t last long.’

‘Dead or asleep, doesn’t matter to me.’ Stated Phyllite, casually picking himself up and across the unconscious people to pluck the remaining bags from the boy. He carefully pried them from the kid’s limp arms, slinging one over his large shoulder, and chucking the other one to Gramdan, over the sleeping bodies of the innocent bystanders. The druid gasped and lunged forward to catch it, misjudging the distance, and receiving a face full of kobold leather and heavy objects. ‘May Kelemvor take pity on our souls…’ Muttered the barbarian with a soft shake of his head. Still standing over the collapsed child, he reverently unhooked a huge warhammer from the side of a burlap sack that might have passed for a bag in its last life. Barely hanging on by the straps of the bag, the handle alone was the size of Ardent’s forearm, wrapped in worn leather for grip. Almost precariously perched on the end of the wooden body, from its sheer weight, was a hunk of solid steel as wide as Phyllite’s shoulders, flattened on both ends to form the head of the hammer. Small dwarfish carvings along the central weight were its only decoration, though seeing the size, it was by no means an ornamental instrument of destruction.

‘Glenda…’ Moaned Phyllite, cradling the hammer to his chest like a child to a mother’s bosom. He carefully dusted off the top and patted it lovingly. ‘I’m never leaving you again.’

‘I feel distinctly uncomfortable.’ Stated the tiefling from beside the druid. Gramdan groaned and rubbed his already crooked nose, a red mark now marring his forehead beneath his thick curling black bangs but nodded as well.

‘Is this yours?’ Asked Gramdan, motioning to the plethora of heavy tomes that had smacked him in the face, now uncovered by the flap that had fallen open in the bag’s short flight. The tiefling fingered the spine of what looked like an ancient grimoire.

‘Mm, no… My magic is decidedly less studious. Which one of us is a wizard?’ He looked up at Phyllite who was still running his calloused fingers along Glenda’s ridges. Definitely not an uncommon multiclasser.

At that moment, Shiro and Maenox burst into the small enclave where the first three had stopped. Maenox’s gaze fell to the bodies littering the ground.

‘What—‘

’Not dead.’ Supplied Ardent.

‘Just asleep! Is this yours?’ Completed Gramdan, holding out the book bag to Maenox who graciously accepted it.

‘Yes! Oh thank Timora.’ She took it greedily and started sorting through the library she had managed to fit inside.

Shiro, meanwhile, wordlessly handed over one bag to each of them. To Ardent, a thick dragon skin pack, adorned with gold embroidery along the scales, laden with clothing, a bed roll, and a few rations, as well as the occasional random memento. To Gramdan, a thick hide adventurer’s pack that had seen better days but was well maintained. A soft bed roll was attached to the top, and someone had painted small grass and flowers along the bottom in fading paint.

‘Then who’s is this?’ Asked Ardent, lifting up the small cloth bag they’d retrieved from the hay stack. It had strange stains along the sides, and clinked when shook, as if filled with wind chimes. They both looked to Shiro, but the paladin was already carrying a heavy hide bag and a mean-looking double-bladed scimitar strapped to his back. The edges of the weapon glinted in the lamp light like a smirk from the dark corners of a tavern you shouldn’t be visiting.

‘Miiiiiiine…..’ Hissed Cackle, having made an unseen entrance into the alley. He scampered between them and snatched the bag from Ardent’s outstretched hand. Immediately the bird fell onto its haunches and tore through the sac, the end of his overlarge beak lost to the entrails of the bag. He proceeded to pull out a mean-looking dagger the length of Maenox’s forearm, and rivalling Shiro’s scimitar in the sharpness of its edge. Cackle carefully slipped it between the folds of his robes where it disappeared as if by magic. His feathered fingers dove once more into the bag, and he pulled out a second, equally deadly-looking blade. And then another. And another.

‘By the Gods.’ Whispered Ardent, somewhere between horrified and intrigued at the bag’s apparent bottomlessness.

‘Do you think he carries any food in there, or just stabs whatever is crawling by at that time?’ Inquired Maenox, definitely walking the edge of disgust.

‘Do you think he’ll let me touch one?’ Asked Gramdan, looking hopeful.

‘No.’ They both answered as one. Gramdan pouted as he re-strapped a battle-axe to his shoulder.

‘Okay. Well, that’s settled. Can we leave now?’ Maenox said, reminding the group of the task at hand before things had gone awry, all of two seconds out the gate.

‘Before the guards catch up.’ Reminded the paladin.

‘Before these people wake up.’ Pointed out the dwarf.

‘Before—‘ Ardent was interrupted by a bell tolling to the north, towards the center of the city. The hollow sound reverberated through the crisp air, thrumming through the chests of the party, like a solemn locking of the doors of fate none of them knew to open. ‘-That.’

‘What are those?’ Asked Gramdan, on the tips of his toes as if the extra inch would give him enough height to spy over the buildings. The barbarian scoffed.

‘Bells. Wow, this group is not gonna last very long.’ Muttered Phyllite, still thumbing at a dirt speck on Glenda’s handle, missing the bemused glances from the rest of the party. Except Cackle, who laughed his weird halting hyena cackle and continued counting the endless number of knives he’d been fishing out of his grimy bag.

‘It’s curfew,’ answered Maenox helpfully, ‘They close the city gates at sundown.’

‘So we’re locked in?’

‘Until sun up, yes.’ Answered Ardent, already looking a bit pale as the news sunk in.

‘Well, fuck.’ Muttered Shiro, which really, summed up their position quite well.

Hands wringing in his long dark beard, the dwarf played with carefully braided ribbons almost camouflaged in the like-colours of the druid’s hair. ’S-so what? What do we do?’ For once, the jovial air Gramdan had been carrying around, so unorthodox for the company and circumstances, faded from his eyes, leaving a darkness even Phyllite had a hard time staring down. 

‘Get a room at an inn for the night? Set out in the morning?’ Offered the wizard. Ardent went another shade paler, a shaking hand reaching for the twisting black horns adorning the top of his head amidst a mess of deep blue curls. 

‘I really think we should find a way out of the city as soon as possible.’ He insisted, eyes flickering over the bodies littering the ground, inching towards the alley mouth. 

‘And how do you fathom we make it through armed guard and a portcullis?’ Tried to reason Maenox. 

‘I have an idea or two…’ Cut in Phyllite, smacking Glenda’s hilt against his palm, a wicked smirk cutting across his features. 

‘We’re not killing anyone!’ Admonished the dwarf, heavy eyebrows falling to a deep frown on his face. Both the barbarian and the bird sported matching looks of skepticism. 

‘And how do you _fathom_ we kill the Dagroth then?’ Inquired Phyllite. Gramdan’s shoulders dropped as he gazed at the ground for an answer. 

‘If circumstances—‘

Phyllite talked over the rest of Gramdan’s answer, ‘Perfect, these are circumstances! C’mon people I don’t have all day. Let’s get this guiding going so I can reap some riches!’ already stepping over bodies, heading West like he’d carve a direct path through the houses and mountains to get there. Half the party protested immediately. 

‘Hey, wait! We’re not doing that!’ Cut in Maenox, hands on her hips, ready to face off the barbarian whose chest was about level with the top of her head. 

He stared her down, ’Since when do you get a say kiddo?’ but she didn’t seem affected by his usually intimidating nature. 

’Since I got sacked with this quest too! We all get equal say, and I vote we stay the night and head out in the morning.’ That got a few of the others nodding along and Phyllite groaned at their general ineptitude. ‘Best not to attract any unwanted attention. Like a bounty, or a wanted poster.’

‘What!? But we’re just wasting time! I bash one or two heads and we’re on our way!’ 

’No murdering my civilians.’ Declared the tiefling.

‘Didn’t you get deposed?’ Shot back Phyllite. 

‘Banished, very different.’ 

‘Sounds about the same to me.’

‘Of course it would, I’m surprised you can talk, let alone be literate.’ Snapped the prince. Phyllite stepped right up to him, Glenda tight in him grip, but the royal only tipped his chin in defiance, their gazes clashing. Tension sizzled in the narrow alleyway, mounting in the small space, the air thick with belligerence. The rest of the party stood awkwardly to the side, unsure if they should pull them apart before one of them got killed or start placing bets on who would survive. Cackle had already wrestled 5 copper from Gramdan when Shiro pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and unsheathed the deadly double-bladed scimitar strapped to his shoulder. On quick swing, and one blade of the two-sided weapon was dangerously poised between the scowling faces of the barbarian and the warlock. Both flinched, but neither dropped their attack stance.

‘We leave at dawn.’ The paladin ordered gruffly, leaving no room for argument in his calm but sharp tone. One might as well have tried talking down a glacier, seeing the frosty resolve in the man’s silver eyes. The deep hood cast most of his face in shadows, but the lamplight glinting off the blade ready to strike down any naysayers bathed his hardened expression in an otherworldly glow. Gramdan gulped from where he stood, a perfectly safe distance away.

The prince nodded, a faux-compliant expression pulling his features into a complacent smile. He lifted both hands in mock-surrender and stepped back from the imminent brawl. Phyllite was not so easily placated, but before he could take out his frustration on the guy wearing the shiny over-the-top armour, a feathery hand tapped his leg. A quick look down found Cackle there, his glowing red eyes looking up unblinkingly at the barbarian. A minute head nod, a quiet retaliation, the soft rubbing of fingers indicating coin, a slight head tilt in consideration, a furtive glance at coin pouches dangling from the belts of their companions, and Phyllite’s expression cleared with understanding. A wicked grin cut through his features.

‘So, anyone know a good place to get some food round here?’

~/~

They zigzagged between the dilapidated building of Esgrove’s shanty town for an hour or so, avoiding foot traffic by darting down back alleys, repeatedly getting lost, and arguing loudly about who in the group were the guides, and who were the guided. The night was heavy, what with the threat on the Western horizon blocking out any star light. Thankfully, the moon was low and bright, illuminating the winding streets of the city’s southern quarter. The occasional oil lamp hanging from a doorway would cast a yellow halo by which the party could scour the surrounding darkness for any threat, or potential hide out. On two occasions, the group had to scramble for cover to avoid patrols. Ardent had stolen a sheet to wrap his horns in, hiding them in an elaborate turban, but the guards were still on high alert after their stunt outside the palace gates, and no one wanted to face the Mage Queens again, this time facing the judiciary tribunal.

They’d managed to walk through most of the old city, across the ruins now used as foundations for tipping structures and crumbling constructions, and made it to the outer wall. It rose above the two-story houses like an impending wave of stone, looming and bleak. The occasional torch could be glimpsed walking along the top of the wall, slowly making its way between the bastions. The air was turning crisp, the dust settled after the day’s events. This far from the city center, they were virtually alone, surrounded by nothing by stout buildings with boarded windows and chained doors. The faintest sound of a viol slithered into the silence, and Maenox’s head perked up.

‘Sounds like a tavern.’ She announced to the group, and everyone’s heads swivelled to the wizard, each wearing a different shade of skepticism.

‘I don’t hear anything.’ Answered the barbarian, blunt as ever. She rolled her eyes and pushed back the hood of her robes from her head. There was something to be said about brevity in argumentation, and at that point, Maenox really just wanted something to eat and a relatively flat horizontal surface to lie on. Her blond hair spilled out, falling just past her shoulders in soft waves. The left side of her head was shaved short, doing nothing to hide the slight point of her ear. She thought maybe the prince and the bird might have guessed by then but wasn’t surprised at the barbarian’s reaction. He was about as perceptive as a rock. 

‘You’re an Elf!’ Exclaimed Phyllite, pointing at her head as if she’d suddenly grown a second one.

‘Half elf.’ Maenox corrected, tucking a loose strand of hair behind the pointed end of her ear. She saw Gramdan’s bewildered look, but polite smile, and filed him away as an ally. The paladin’s stony face gave nothing away, but she could have sworn she saw his eyes widen ever so slightly under his hood.

‘That’s so… Cool.’ Finished the barbarian, trying to play off his hesitation, but Maenox eyed him coldly.

‘Were you going to say hot?’ She bristled. The group groaned collectively, but Phyllite seemed unperturbed.

‘I mean, are you royalty?’

‘Uhm… No?’

‘Then yeah, just cool.’ He looked relieved to confirm. ‘So what, you can hear really well?’

‘Mildly better than you, at most.’ She answered, tugging the hood back over her head.

‘So a tavern?’ Cut in Ardent, looking over his shoulder wearily. He’d been pacing whenever they stopped, playing with the dangling jewelry at his neck when his hands weren’t otherwise occupied repositioning the sheet covering his horns so very conspicuously. Maenox nodded and pointed down a dark curving avenue. Phyllite took the lead.

The group followed behind, tight in an unconsciously natural formation, keeping a steady pace, but attempting stealth. Shiro’s plate armour proved detrimental to their endeavours, but as the only one clanking around the group of six, they were somewhat inconspicuous. The patrols were infrequent by the walls, but their chances of being spotted by the guards up top were much higher, so they kept to the shadow of the buildings, and walked single row. Ardent had somehow ended up last, bringing up the rear with Maenox.

‘So…’ He broached lightly. She cocked an eyebrow.

‘Exalted?’ She teased. The warlock deflated.

‘Hilarious.’ He deadpanned.

‘I know.’ She winked but cut him some slack. ‘What do you want to know?’ The tiefling perked up, his golden eyes shining with curiosity.

‘Half-elf? Like a full half?’ He asked, and she hummed her confirmation. ‘But you’re so… Pale.’

‘Aren’t princes taught not to be racist?’

‘I’m fucking blue Maenox, don’t get me started.’ He snapped back, but she only chuckled. ‘Where are you from?’

‘I’m from Fymoor.’ She supplied and Ardent’s eyes flashed with recognition.

‘Oh. Oh?’

‘You know it?

‘Yes, I was actually born on the Front.’ The prince admitted easily. Maenox looked over her shoulder at him, scanning his face for a trace of a lie.

‘Really? You’ve been to Fymoor?’ She asked, but his expression clouded, and Maenox suddenly didn’t want to hear his answer anymore.

‘Not exactly. I’ve sent a lot of men there.’ He admitted less easily. Maenox nodded but turned away from the Tiefling. Ardent couldn’t tell if her shoulders had suddenly tensed, or if they’d always been tight. Her whisper filtered back to him, almost lost in their quiet footsteps, in the soft breeze, as silent as a dagger brandished in the night, cutting too quickly for anyone to scream.

‘Not enough.’

The tavern was a dreadful affair. Leaning precariously towards the building on its left, the structure seemed far from secure. Dim, flickering light poured out of both stories, the top sporting what looked like dilapidated rooms through barred windows, and the ground floor housing a poorly maintained bar boasting all of two patrons, one of which was passed out on the ground, and a drunken bard. The whole placed oozed an odor of booze and some unidentifiable stench which the party had caught a whiff of some two block away. Sure enough, as they had gotten closer, the viol had become audible to the other adventurers. A well-known, yet barely recognizable, country song was being played, paired with some slightly-less-than-terrible singing. The two stories sat right on the corner of bisecting streets, only three rows of houses from the city walls. The group had carefully picked their way across the road, and stood hesitantly in the awning of the tavern, which leaned awkwardly low on one side. A sign swung in the cool breeze, extending from the awning, depicting an emaciated dog eating a sausage. Gramdan wondered if it was supposed to be a joke.

‘Well, this is nice.’ Said Cackle. Though, the girlish voice he’d used held not an ounce of sarcasm, they all knew where the true meaning laid.

‘It's… Low profile.’ Bartered Gramdan, who had slept in much worse conditions. Actually, all of them had, at one point in their lives, slept on the hard floor of a damp cave with little to no padding other than a rolled-up bundle of dirty clothes while rain pounded down outside its mouth. It had simply been longer for some than for others. Ardent’s face betrayed his silence, curled up in a grimace of disgust so over the top he must have practiced making it in the mirror.

‘It’s quaint?’ Tried Maenox, but she was shaking her head as she said it.

‘As long as they have alcohol.’ Muttered the paladin, clearly not meaning to be heard. The party cast a confused look at the hulking man shroud in darkness, who seemed perfectly content with the standards of this establishment, as he brushed past them and into the tavern without as much as a backward glance. Maenox and Gramdan shared a look, now bound in their perpetual confusion in awkward camaraderie.

‘I could go for a drink,’ admitted the dwarf.

‘Are you offering?’ countered the wizard and dragged a smile onto the man’s face.

‘First round’s on the dwarf!’ Yelled Phyllite, throwing an arm over the much smaller man’s shoulder and dragging him into the establishment, ignoring his squawk of indignation. Maenox pulled away at the last minute, avoiding the barbarian’s other arm, ducking under it and ending up next to Cackle.

‘You don’t even drink…’ Muttered the bird, following in the taller man’s shadows, leaving behind the wizard and the warlock to awkwardly pad around the new found rift they hadn’t had the time to see coming.

‘You should go in,’ gestured the fallen prince, magnanimously pointing out the stains on the floorboards like they were characteristically charming, the kind no self-respecting tavern would be missing. Maenox scrunched up her nose in something between disgust and distaste, though at the dark red hopefully-mulled-wine-stains, or at Ardent, the warlock couldn’t tell. Her keen eyes shifted to the sheet he’d haphazardly wrapped around his horns.

‘Are you going to stand out here all night?’ She asked, earning herself a bitter chuckle from the man. He fingered the frayed edges of the stolen cloth.

’No, of course not… I’ll just slip by once you’ve procured a room.’ He answered with another vague wave of his hand.

‘And no one’s going to notice a blue tiefling?’

‘No more than a half elf.’ He answered, and that seemed to quell her, if only by annoyance. She raised her eyebrows in a what-ever-you-say and followed the retreating backs of their companions.

‘Maenox!’ He called and she turned back, hallowed in the soft glow of the tavern, her blond hair aflame in the firelight. He fished a gold piece from his money pouch and gently threw it. She caught it between both palms. ‘For the room.’ The light stole away her expression as she turned, but Ardent could have sworn he’d glimpsed at a scowl. Well, there went his usual technique of throwing money at his problems. The success rate was usually much higher.

~/~

Agheda was not soft. Her hands were calloused beyond repair, her demeanour was akin to sandpaper, and her voice ground out like a handful of crushed stone. She reigned over her hard-earned establishment (since the unexplained disappearance of her good-for-nothing husband, dearly departed, and whose multiple gambling debts had been excused on account of his no-longer-living-ness, and the sharp end of a battle-axe anyone who came asking for payments from the widow met instead) with a hand of steel and renown for her skill with a butcher’s knife in more than simply kitchen-related endeavours. Some called it tyranny, but they were rarely allowed seats in the house long enough to declare injustice. She was the tempestuous ruler of bitter ale and sour bread and would sooner see the rotten walls burn to the ground than allow anyone to look at her sideways. She had an infamous roughness, one which kept hooligans from her tavern, usually.

She watched the newcomers waltz into her decrepit eating room with a sneer that could scrape the dried blood from her floorboards. Fools, they had all of sixty seconds to explain their business before she unhooked the clearly not ornamental axes from the wall and showed them where she believed rebellious adventurers belonged: among the dirt and swine beyond the walls. The quiet one in the white cap was fine in her books. He’d ordered an ale, tipped nicely, and squared himself away in the back corner without causing a fuss. The same could not be said for the burly brute with his arm thrown over a clearly confused dwarf making his way up to the counter with a smile that would have worked on a younger and more naive women. Agheda fingered the butcher’s knife she kept handy.

‘Hello, a large glass of orange juice for me. The dwarf is buying.’ He pronounced, producing the dwarf like an offering from under his arm. The shorter dark-haired man stuttered and blew a stray strand from where it had fallen from being jostled by the man twice his height and searched his pouch.

‘And an ale, please,’ added the dwarf, counting out his coins and grimacing. ‘Actually, just the juice,’ he corrected, setting a few coppers on the counter. Agheda pocketed it in a movement so quick, neither of them actually saw her hand reach out and grab them.

‘We don’t have juice,’ she said, and jerked her chin to the small menu nailed to the wall at the end of the counter, ‘only ale and firebug whiskey.’

‘Oh…’ the dwarf hummed, looking up expectantly at the taller man whose face had clouded over.

‘Just a water then,’ he amended, and Agheda grunted, fetching a mostly clean jug from the pile beside her.

‘How much…’ started the dwarf, but a squealing look from Agheda had him retracting his words, ‘just, keep the difference then.’ The barmaid slammed down the water on the counter and frowned at the bird who followed in after. The short little thing scuttled around a bit, red eyes glowing ominously, then ducked quick under his hood and taking a seat across from the paladin. The dwarf thanked her, and her two patrons went to join the other around the small table. They quieted down after that, and Agheda almost hopped the evening’s events would end there, but of course, that’s when a member of the Glowing Hands Guild swept into her establishment with a gold piece twirling between her fingers, and a thunderous expression. Agheda sighed heavily, nothing good could come if the guild member was meeting with the street urchins. She would not see her respectable tavern turned into a place for illicit dealings beyond her own, personal ones. She had a snarky warning on the tip of her tongue when, to her surprise, the woman walked right up to the counter, and slapped the coin down.

‘I’ll need a room,’ she said, annoyance flickering in her eyes, but a tentative smile on her lips. Agheda’s gaze slipped to the small troupe at her back table who’d perked up at her entrance.

‘You can get a much nicer rooms in much nicer places than this with that kind of gold, honey,’ pointed out Agheda, eyeing the royal seal along the face. It was pure, uncut.

‘Then I’ll have more than one room,’ answered the woman, eyes flashing beneath her hood, and smile turning cunning. Agheda grunted in return, swiping the coin out from under the wizard’s fingers.

‘I’ve only got two,’ the innkeeper said, ‘second floor, not much but you won’t be bothered. Out by noon or I call in the city guard. Anything suspicious, and I call the city guard. If you look at me funny—‘

‘You’ll call the city guard?’ The woman finished. Agheda grunted.

‘Can that gold also get my friends and me a bite to eat?’ She asked, pointing to the table with the would-be mercenaries. Agheda shifted uneasily. So, she was in league with them. Eyeing the blue hand painted on the woman’s wizard robes, the innkeeper swiftly lied.

‘Kitchen’s closed for the night.’

‘We don’t need anything warm,’ pushed the wizard. The dwarf called to her, Maenox it might have been, and she looked over her shoulder while he made a sharp head jerk towards the front door. ‘… In our room, if that’s alright,’ she added, and at Agheda’s skeptical look, she added a sweet smile and, ‘we’re terribly tired, and we’ll be out by sunrise.’ Agheda eyed her a second more, then her troop of hooligans, and nodded. This close to the wall, and leaving by sunrise, they were in a rush to leave the city. That could only mean they were running, most likely from the guard. If any of them had live bounties on their heads and had thought they’d be finding refuge under her roof, they would be sorely mistaken by morning.

The wizard’s smile turned dazzling and she quickly walked over to her friends and waved to them to move upstairs. They all rose in unison, and quickly shuffled around the tables and chairs, crossing the front door before ducking up the stairs. The dwarf thanked her again, and while she nodded, she spied an extra pair of feet adding themselves to the group. Interesting. Once they’d eclipsed upstairs, Agheda gave a sharp whistle, and Pater, her son and kitchen hand, appeared from the back room with a whine, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘Alright boy, time to win your keep. Take some bread and pickled vegetables, and scope the clients on the second,’ she ordered with a stiff jerk to the stairs.

‘Are you gonna make me run to the guards again?’ He grumbled, setting out to gathering the food on a large tray.

‘If there’s anything of note. They tried sneaking in another one with them, try to get a good look, he was wearing some fancy boots.’

‘But it’s cold out,’ the boy sniffed.

‘Ay, I raised you not to complain. You’ll get a copper for your troubles, now hurry.’ She hushed him with a softer kind of grunt. The kid perked up, eyes dancing with the possibility of sweets.

‘Fancy boots?’ He asked, and Agheda smiled.

‘Heeled.’

~/~

‘The Ilses are so fancy you guys have shanty towns inside the city walls,’ grumbled Phyllite as he threw himself down onto the nearest bed, falling onto the barely stuffed mattress in a flurry of hay and the creaking of the wooden joints.

‘Where else would they be?’ muttered Ardent, carefully unwrapping his horns from the spare cloth and folding it before setting it down on a low bedside table with an empty bedpan next to it.

‘I’m just saying, it seems like a waste of money protecting people who can’t even afford real roofs,’ replied Phyllite snidely, shifting in the bed as if purposely trying to make the wood give, and settled with a sigh with both hands behind his head and feet propped on the foot of the bed frame.

‘Not everyone is born into a family that can afford such things,’ retaliated the fallen prince, poising himself primly on the opposite bed. His many gold bracelets and trinkets clicked and clacked as he smoothed out the tattered bed sheets, a curl of disgust framing his aristocratic mouth, the remnants of lipstick still hanging on for dear life in the bow of his top lip.

‘You’re one to talk,’ sniffed Phyllite, ‘the buyer usually pays for accommodation and food throughout the trip, you know. So unless your mum has accounts set up in the Peninsulas, you’ll be melting those bracelets by the end of the week.’

‘We have high standards,’ parroted back Cackle in the barbarian’s voice. Ardent gasped, clutching his gold necklaces in lieu of pearls.

‘We’re not going to the peninsulas,’ growled the hooded figure slumped in the far corner. Shiro had elected the floor instead of the two beds the other three were squabbling over. Hood pulled low over his eyes, he sipped avidly at the nearing empty mug of ale in hand.

‘You don't—’ started the lounging barbarian, only to be interrupted by a quick knock at the door, ‘-food.’ He swung to his feet and charge the door, flinging it open in barely enough time for Ardent to squeeze himself between Shiro and the only larger piece of furniture in the room: a double-door wardrobe infested by termites by the look of the wood. He could just hide his horns if he ducked down, leaving only his feet to stick out.

‘Is that all?’ Phyllite questioned the scrawny kid leaning in the doorway, head peaking curiously into the room. He held a small plater of day-old bread, pickled cabbage, and sun-dried tomatoes. ‘No meat?’

’Meat’s expensive’ chewed out the youth, gaze jumping along the occupants as he took a step past the door frame, craning his head into the room. Phyllite’s eyes lifted from the bare platter and followed the kid’s gaze to the far corner where a pair of heeled boots stuck out from behind the wardrobe.

‘Yeah well,’ and the barbarian grabbed the platter out of the kid’s hands, steeping into his line of sight, ‘some cheese wouldn’t be asking too much.’ He rolled on a scowl and stepped forwards, forcing the kid back through the doorway with his sheer bulk. The boy stuttered back a step, falling over his own feet. The tray was dwarfed by the barbarian’s huge hands, and the warning was clear in his white-knuckled grip.

‘C-cheese?’

‘Maybe some brie?’ supplied Cackle from over the hulking man’s shoulder.

‘Or some Camembert,’ continued Phyllite. The boy nodded shallowly, swallowed heartily, and darted back down the stairs. Phyllite rolled his eyes and closed the door, already halfway through the loaf of dry bread by the time Ardent has extracted himself from the paladin’s white cloak.

‘And you say I’m haughty,’ he sniffed, shipping a length of cabbage and breaking it off against his fang. ’That was too close. He can’t see me.’

‘Hide better.’

‘Maybe give me a second before opening doors without warning.’

‘Maybe don’t be a traitor to your own people.’Snapped back Phyllite, flopping back onto the bed gracelessly. Ardent frowned deeply.

‘Low blow.’ He sniffed, but the barbarian only shrugged.

They settled around the room with quiet, if begrudging, comradery after that. The paladin took the proffered bread from the fallen prince, and after eating it with surprising elegance, promptly closed his eyes and fell asleep slumped into the corner of the room. Ardent nibbled on a few spare crumbs, his nerves still wired and ears perked. He’d felt on edge ever since he’d stepped back into what he’d once called home. Now, he couldn’t unlace his boots before sleeping for fear he’d be roused by the sound of singing steel. Phyllite cleaned the platter off and wedged a somewhat comfortable form into the hay mattress, curling up his legs to leave enough room for Cackle to squeeze in at the foot. The bird had munched on the bread crusts left by his companion, and nested in the only blanket at their disposal, much to the shivering Ardent’s chagrin. The soft winds of summer were yielding too quickly to the harshness of winter. Ardent had almost managed to fall asleep when Phyllite pipped up from the bed over.

‘How long does it take to get some cheese from the kitchens?’

~/~

‘Did you hear what he said?’ Asked Maenox from where she sat cross legged on the bed. She’d shed her outer cloak and her blond hair fell freely around her shoulder, her pointed ears peeking out from between the strands. She toyed with a piece of bread in her hands, distractedly staring out the barred window. Gramdan looked up from the floor where he had settled, leaning against the opposite bed.

‘Who?’ He asked through a mouthful of dried tomatoes. Maenox shifted her light blue gaze to him.

‘The guard at the guard house. The one Shiro scared the shit out of,’

‘Oh, him,’ chuckled the druid with fond remembrance about the day’s previous events. He cocked his head, thinking, before landing on the prize of the inquiry. ‘About perpetuating child labour? Yeah, I know…’

‘No. Well, yes,’ she relented, ‘but he said they kept our stuff for a week. Has it really been a week?’ Gramdan shrugged.

‘I guess. I mean, I came in from the north, they knocked me out before I even reached the Isles. Why?’

‘I thought I’d gone to the Meet just this morning.’ Muttered the wizard, gaze falling to the bread she’d crumbled between her fingers.

‘Probably the magic,’ tried Gramdan, a reassuring smile upon his amicable features. Maenox tried for a convinced smile.

‘It’s always the magic.’

Just then, the door to their room burst open and Phyllite, Ardent, and Shiro tumbled in. They landed in a heap between the beds as both the wizard and the druid scrambled up to their feet. Maenox was already reaching for her book bag. Nothing good ever came from harried barbarians and worried warlocks.

‘Uhm, hi?’ pitched in Gramdan. With the added height of the bed, he almost reached Phyllite’s chin when the man in question extracted himself from under the pile of bodies.

’No time, we have to go,’ he said, moving straight towards the bared windows at the back of the room. Ardent, having found his footing, quickly slammed to door shut, and started pulling the matching drawer chest to their room’s wardrobe in front of it.

‘Guard. Here. Me,’ he panted, heaving to move the chunk of wood until Shiro graciously intervened and kept the prince from an early demise at the hands of an exertion-caused heart attack. The paladin grabbed one end of the chest in each hand and plopped it down in front of the door without breaking a sweat. ‘Thank you,’ breathed out the prince, a man with manners after all. Shiro only nodded, avoiding direct eye contact.

‘Uhm, what the hell?’ supplied Maenox, cloak re-donned and book bag re-slung across her shoulders. Ardent had the decency to look sheepish.

‘The owner must have known, or someone saw me, but the provincial guard is downstairs and if we don’t get out now, we don’t get out at all.’

That ruckus down the hall registered then, a tumultuous symphony of leather issued boots slapping rotting hardwood floors and the occasional clang of swords hitting plate in the rush to get up the stairs. The whole was underscored by the creaking of the age-old building, threatening to give out under the very feet of the people trying to protect it from the dastardly fallen prince who dare stain the city with his presence. Somewhere, past doors and floors, a woman was yelling about hooligans, the sound of a butcher’s knife hitting wooden countertops ringing like the sorely needed percussions to complete the harmonious catastrophe unfolding.

‘I hate children,’ muttered Phyllite under his breath. He wrapped two thick hands around the grating nailed into the wall around the window and gave a jerk. The metal didn’t even shake. He took a breath, puffed up his bare chest (shirts were a no-go for any self-respecting barbarian) and heaved. An overloud creak registered in above the growing cacophony, and a single nail popped free from the frame, sailing across the room to land by the door.

‘C’mon, c’mon !’ rushed Ardent, wringing his hands as his eyes flickered from the door back to Phyllite.

‘You want to try noodle arms?’ gritted the barbarian through his teeth. Ardent didn’t have the time to be offended, the steps scurrying past their door and onto the room they had just vacated.

‘We have ten seconds before they realize and show up here,’ hissed the tiefling. Maenox gathered icicles on her fingertips like claws, Shiro unsheathed his double-bladed scimitar, Ardent fished his wand from his boot, and all watched the metal start to yield and wilt in Phyllite’s hands.

‘Five seconds,’ muttered Shiro, his fingers tightening to a choking hold around the leather grip of his weapon. Phyllite grunted, shoulders and arms bulging from the effort. Voices were rising from beyond the door, clamours and call to arms, rounding on their location. Gramdan jumped down from the bed, joining Phyllite and adding his strength to the task.

‘Three, two…’

The slam of bodies against the wooden door drowned out the sound of the metal grill being torn from the wall. Ardent’s small cry of alarm was also lost in the din. The bars went skidding across the floor, knocking into feet and boots until it ricochets under one of the beds. Phyllite threw open the window beyond, and the cool night air rushed in to meet them tasting of steel and firewood.

‘Okay,’ he said, turning back to the group, gaze falling on the blanching tiefling, ‘let’s go.’

‘Me?’ squeaked Ardent, clutching his wand with white knuckles. Gramdan had already unhooked a length of hempen rope from his pack, handing it to Phyllite who nodded, seriously adding “reconsider use of dwarf” to his to-do list. He deftly tied one end into a harness and held it out to the trembling warlock. ‘First?’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered the barbarian, hooking his own legs through the loops and tightening the rope around his waist. Another harsh slam sent the drawers chest rocking, the door cracking open to offer a glimpse of bright purple uniforms and helms. Shiro slammed it back shut with his shoulder and Maenox started chanting softly, ice forming in the hinges and doorframes. Phyllite turned to Gramdan.

‘Can you lower me?’

‘Do bards mate with dragons?’ The druid answered with a cheeky smile.

‘Y … Yes?’ Blinked the barbarian. Gramdan sighed and picked up the rope.

“Yes. Just… Yes.’ He relented. Phyllite got a foot up on the windowsill, and with no hesitation, dropped down through the window until he hung by his fingertips. Gramdan grunted as the rope went taut and burned his palms, but he had won his callouses and they held firm against the hempen. Phyllite felt the harness take his weight, and slowly loosened his grip on the window until he hung, propped up by his legs against the building. The midnight air rushed below him, whistling through the narrow shanty streets, through boarded up store front and empty alley ways. The rope slowly started to give, and Phyllite descended into the night.

His feet hit cement and he quickly divested the harnesses, tugging hard on the rope until it flew back up and through the second-floor window. The street was empty along this side, but the ground floor light illuminated the opposite end of the intersection where shadows danced across the sidewalks. He pulled out Glenda and took comfort in her familiar weight.

In the room, Gramdan was shoving the harness at a still pale-faced tiefling who anxiously hopped into the leg loops and let the druid tighten the waist strap. The door bulged and buckled from the weight applied to it on the outside, but Maenox and Shiro’s counter effort were holding strong. The wood was splintering right down the middle, and try as she might, the wizard’s ice could only patch so much.

‘Go, go!’ urged Gramdan, shoving Ardent through the window. The prince propped up a leg and straddled the sill, looking greener by the second. The cord pulled taut as Gramdan wedged his feet against the wall, and Ardent wrapped both hands around the rope. ‘Go!’

‘I’m going!’ he yelled back, avoiding looking down. Slowly, he shimmied over the edge, and as soon as the window dropped out from under him, he curled right up, hanging like a ball of yarn from the cord. Gramdan grunted, the rope slipping a bit before biting into his rope-burned palms anew. Behind him, he heard Shiro gasp as the new onslaught slammed him aside. Maenox’s magic was crackling in the air, ice splintering from the belligerent effort. Gramdan started working his way down the rope, letting it lower the warlock who’d yet to move from his flying fetal position. Phyllite stood right below the delivering package, eyes warily jumping from alley to shadow.

Ardent was about a floor up when the guards finally burst into the room. The ice magic cracked like a whip and dissolved into water as the caster stumbled aside. The door caved, falling right off its splinters and pushing forwards the chest of drawers, sending Shiro flying backwards and right into the straining druid. Their bodies collided and the rope slipped from between Gramdan’s hands, sending Ardent tumbling down below, the rope along with him.

Ardent’s Icarus fall—and his shrieking—were cut short rather abruptly by a pair of muscular arms which encased him fully. When he dared unscrew an eye, he found Phyllite looking down at him in disdain, carrying him bridal style down into the nearest alleyway. As soon as they were out of sight, the barbarian dropped him like a sack of potatoes.

‘Ow,’ complained the tiefling from the ground. ‘Unnecessary.’

‘I better get a bonus for keeping you alive.’ Growled the barbarian, arms crossed and jaw set.

’They might pay you to kill me …’ muttered the prince, struggling to his feet and dusting off his leather pants, looking back towards the alley mouth. ‘How do you think the other’s will fair?’

‘Same as me!’ chirped Cackle from the shadows.

‘Fuck!’ swore Ardent, jumping a foot in the air. He turned and sure enough, detaching himself from the darkness plaguing the alley, was the cloaked bird, the edge of his beak catching the soft moonlight like the edge of a blade.

‘Oh hey Cackle,’ simply greeted Phyllite, completely at ease with the bird’s disappearing and reappearing act. The use of a little girl’s high-pitched voice was definitely not helping Arden’s heart rate.

‘How on earth did you get out?’ asked the tiefling, hand glued to his chest as he tried to regulate his breathing. The bird did the aviary equivalent of a smile.

‘Guests.’

~/~

‘Oh hello,’ waved Gramdan, conspicuously standing in front of the wide-open windows with his hands held behind his back, strained smile slapped across his face. Maenox kicked the metal bars further under the bed, but only elicited a loud grating noise that echoed overloud in the narrow room crowded with armed guards and the handful of remaining delinquents. She smiled sweetly at the sour knights. ‘W-what can we help you with?’

‘We received information that a known criminal was hiding here,’ gruffly answered the man at the front of the group. Wrinkles framed his downturned mouth, and a few salt and pepper strands feathered beneath his helm. His tunic was emblazoned with a dozen little medals and flags along the front, and his eyes spoke of diligence and little patience.

‘Criminal?’ Gasped Maenox with surprising sincerity, pearl-clutching and wide-eyed. She’d propped her hood back up in the fray, but it only served to frame her doe eyes and pouting lips. The guard grimaced, motioned his followers to lower their swords a bit. The young one facing Shiro didn’t, though the tip of his blade trembled. To be fair, no one in the room was about to switch places with him and end up on the receiving side of the paladin’s death glare. ‘Have you seen a criminal Gramdan?’ the wizard swung her gaze to the fidgeting druid and let her mouth harden into a stern line for only him to see.

’M-me? No. Criminal? Pff. Ha ha, just taking in some night air,’ the words formed almost painfully, sweat beading at his temple. Maenox prayed the gods were feeling merciful tonight.

‘What business did you have here?’ Grunted the guard, lowering his sword enough to get an extra step closer to the druid who sputtered at the approach.

‘W-we… Uh…’

‘We’re just spending the night,’ interrupted Maenox, stepping off the bed and edging closer to Gramdan.

‘Not exactly a safe neighbourhood.’

‘Hence the chest in front of the door,’ Maenox coughed. ‘We’re students. Can’t really afford better.’

‘At the university?’ He pressed.

‘Out of town. Out of province, really. It’s actually our first day here. We were hoping to see the sights tomorrow,’ the wizard continued, here gaze swinging between her two acolytes.

‘Yeah, the sights. We’re tourists,’ embellished the dwarf with a thin chuckle.

‘Tourists,’ repeated the guard, scorn and clear disbeliefs painting his lips.

‘We’re actually visiting family?’ Added Gramdan, only to realize his mistake and clamp his mouth shut under Maenox’s wide-eyed glare.

‘Who you’re not staying with?’ picked up the guard, his sword levelling once more with the druid’s chin.

‘They have guests tonight,’ deadpanned Shiro, his eagle eyes landing on the inquisitor, blatantly ignoring the sword pointed at his chest. Their eye contact held for a weighed second, time skirting around the encounter for fear of crossing between them. Maenox held her breath, hands white knuckled around her grimoire, finger already wedged between the pages of her best close-range attack should the need arise. Gramdan was seriously considering throwing himself out of the window in an attempt to defuse the situation.

In the end, he didn’t need to. The tension vanished as if it hadn’t come barreling through the door to their room moments ago. The guard rightened, his sword going slack in his grip, and he blinked at the three of them as if waking from a dream.

‘Guests,’ he muttered, ‘of course. My apologies.’ He even bowed a bit, and turned heel out of the room, followed obediently by the throng of zombie-like guards in his wake. The remaining three blinked at the scene, then at each other.

‘Uhm…’ started Gramdan, looking bewildered between the other two.

‘The fuck?’ muttered Maenox.

‘Let’s go?’ suggested Shiro, and the other two nodded, following out the paladin.

They hurried down the steps and through the tavern floor where the owner was having a row with the head of the guard, the kid from earlier looking equally infuriated at her side. The trio ducked out as quietly as they could, successfully unseen by the rampaging owner, and disappeared into the night air. Sticking close to one another, they made their way around the building, to the stretch of street below the window Phyllite and Ardent had escaped from and started peering into alleys. Thankfully, the others heard them approach and peeked out from their hiding spot.

‘Thank the Gods,’ whispered Ardent as he jogged the few feet to join them. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Fit as a fiddle, we just said we were tourists and they left us alone,’ cheerily recounted the dwarf.

‘More like your aunt’s magic is still holding up.’ Maenox grimaced.

‘Modify memory, wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that one…’ agreed the warlock.

‘We should go,’ reminded Shiro, already walking towards the nearest city gate.

‘Where? The gates are still closed!’ Moaned the tiefling, bereft.

‘Gates can be opened. Heads can’t be reattached.’ Pipped up Cackle in a voice that should never have uttered such words.

‘Want to see how long you last in prison before the poor start wanting to eat you?’ Added on Phyllite.

‘They won’t be far behind us. They’ll check the gate next,’ warned Ardent, ease shining with distrust and necessary caution.

‘Then we better hurry,’ grinned Phyllite, Glenda in hand and looking particularly menacing in the midnight moonlight.

The gate rose higher than the ceilings of the Queen’s Meet, towering over the street and houses ominously in the pooling. The carvings along the arch that usually delighted the eye in the day, were twisted into shadows mistaken for gargoyles in the corner of one’s eye. Heavy iron bars pierced the earth, the teeth of the city wall seemingly impenetrable—or, rather, inescapable. The party crouched in a nearby alcove the dip between two low buildings created. A permanent merchant’s stall, devoid of curtains and goods, hid them from the view of the lone guard patrolling the gate from the ground. More dots of torchlight crept along the spine of the wall at regular intervals.

‘There. That’s the winch,’ pointed Ardent, drawing the other’s eyes to a large cylindrical contraption with long leverage poles sticking out of it, tucking into a niche in the wall. The guard made a lap, crossing their line of sight.

‘What do we do about them?’ whispered Maenox from his left.

‘I could try binding them in vines,’ offered Gramdan, mimicking the action with his hands.

‘But he could yell, alert others,’ pointed out the prince.

‘You could try putting them to sleep again?’

‘I didn’t have time to rest, I don’t have the strength,’ dejectedly admitted the warlock.

‘I could freeze them, but if I don’t hit the head, we’re back to the same problem…’ Maenox argued.

‘We’re not hurting them,’ ground out Ardent, eyes flashing. ‘They’re innocent here.’

‘No one who picks up a sword is innocent,’ muttered Shiro from behind them, eyes hard beneath his cowl. The casters all let their eyes fall. The cool wind whistled by, hurdling between the buildings and alleys, lifting a cloud of dust that settled before anyone spoke up again.

‘Okay, we can hurt them a little,’ conceded Ardent.

‘More than a little,’ whistled Cackle, one feathery hand lifted to the gate. The party—minus a barbarian—spun around and, surely enough, Phyllite had crept away from the group, his sandals surprisingly silent against the cobblestone. Ardent sprung to stand up, but a heavy hand on his shoulder kept him down, a harsh glance from the paladin quieting any argument. Glenda raised over his shoulder, he lined the length of the street, timing his arrival so the guard would have his back to him. The whole of the action took less than six seconds. Phyllite silently walked up behind the unknowing guard and swung down hard with his war hammer. The whistle of the weapon must have caught the guard’s ear, because the party watched his spine straighten momentarily, before the flat side of the hammer hit his head. Rather, it dislodged it. The tearing of flesh was drowned out by the sharp and unmistakable crushing of bone that echoed in the empty street. The party watched, aghast mostly, pleased somewhat, as the guard’s head entirely shifted to the left, without their body following. The offending body part tumbled over a shoulder and hit the ground, rolling a bit before coming to a halt a few feet away, leaving behind a track of blood. The body, momentarily, stood perfectly still in that just alerted position, one hand on the pommel of their sword until it registered it no longer had a head, and prompt slumped. Phyllite must have anticipated the action, because he was ready to catch the falling body, and carefully, ironically gently, settled it on the ground. He then turned and gave the still hiding troop a big thumbs up and grin.

Cackle clapped quietly.

Ardent was the first to reach the barbarian.

‘What the fuck Phyllite! I said we weren’t killing civilians!’ He whisper-yelled, fury shining in his golden eyes as he stepped right up to the man, fists balled and wand in hand. 

‘I don’t answer to you. You aren’t my prince. In fact, you’re not prince of anything anymore. So get off your high horse,’ argued back the barbarian, chest puffed and towering over the royal. Maenox and Gramdan shared a look, prepared to pull them apart if things escalated. Shiro wandered off towards the winch. Cackle looted the body.

‘Stop that!’ Ardent made to intervene, but a steel grip on his wrist kept his fingers a breath away from the bird’s cape.

‘Don’t touch him,’ gritted out Phyllite, eyes twin slabs of blue-tinge steel. His grip was bruising. The battle of wills raged on for a moment, until it became apparent who had gotten first blood out of the two. Ardent ripped his hand away, rubbing at his wrist. Cackle quickly picked the guard’s pockets and extracted a few spare silvers from the man’s coin pouch. He fiddled back up next to Phyllite and slipped him the money.

‘He was just doing his job. You didn’t have to kill him,’ Ardent spat, eyes never lowering from Phyllite’s sneer.

‘He worked for the Isles. That’s reason enough for me.’

‘What about me then? Going to slit my throat while next I sleep?’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ ground out the barbarian, hands fisted and shoulders bulging from the apparent strain not socking Ardent in the mouth was causing. Cackle set one feathery hand on Phyllite’s arm, not so much a warning than a promise to stick by his side whatever he chose to do. Ardent didn’t dare look to Maenox or Gramdan, alone was how he fought most of his battles anyway.

‘You’re not part of the isles,’ whispered the wizard, coming to stand between them, her hand falling to his shoulder lightly. Ardent tore his gaze from Phyllite’s, letting it land on Maenox’s elven features. ‘Not anymore.’

The portcullis opened with a groan of metal and clinking of chains, dragging itself from the earth all of three feet before shaking ominously, and falling still. Shiro emerged from the niche where the winch was hidden, and casually ducked below the spikes the size of swords. He straightened up on the other side of the portcullis and gave them all a look from beneath his hood. Maenox gave Ardent’s shoulder a squeeze and hurried over, twisting under the gate. Gramdan gave Ardent a wry smile before following behind. The warlock didn’t spare the barbarian or his companion a glance and he hurried after them, but the heavy foot falls and pitter-patter of talons on cobblestone followed him like a shadow.

Once safely on the other side of the city wall, the party cast one last look to the towering fortifications and the houses beyond, to the towers of the Queen’s Meet just visible in the dawning light and turned from Esgrove. Shoulders heavy with their quest, they faced East, and walked into the new dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...? I should really be writing my final... *cries in tired uni student* Okay! No promises on the next update, I'm planning on taking a big chunk of time to finish up my NaNoWriMo project in full, though you might see some side stories get updated as I tie up some loose ends with my players...! Hope this satisfies for the moment, the ending definitely felt right for a hiatus! Love from the forever DM ~
> 
> Fun fact! (Because if anyone not in my party is reading this you probably have questions) : As I post this we're settling down to play session 60 of the campaign!! Though this chapter just tides over our first session, my players have just finished the second big story arc and are going to be enjoying some well earned time off... For now. I think this session will also mark the end point of the second "book" of this series (if I ever write that much) which I'm thinking of naming "Rise of the Lord Slayers" or something along those lines... Might be too badass for this band of buffoons. We'll see...! 
> 
> See you all next session! :)


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